


chrysanthemum in the mirror, moon on the water [鏡菊水月]

by xochisui



Category: Naruto
Genre: Assassins, Edo Era, Enemies(ish) to lovers, Espionage, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mentions of Ritual Suicide, Romance, Samurai AU, Trauma/PTSD, Wakashudo Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xochisui/pseuds/xochisui
Summary: Someone once told Itachi that the lines on his face meant he was cursed. Born under a bad star, saddled with an unlucky fate because of some past karma, perhaps.Itachi is not a superstitious man, but maybe there is some virtue in feeling haunted the way he often does—by the pressures of responsibility and reputation, eyes from the heavens and those on earth that stare daggers at the Uchiha crest between his shoulder blades. By painful memories and the way Sasuke’s face resembles their mother’s.It’s not until he meets a strange lute singer one day, tangling their lives together with a single glance, that he discovers what it means to be truly haunted. A man whose easygoing charm contrasts with the way secrets seem to swim in his depthless eyes.If he’s not cautious, Itachi knows he’ll be devoured by such eyes.





	1. [Prologue] Blood Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [malignedaffairs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=malignedaffairs).

_鏡花水月 (Kyōka Suigetsu) - ‘mirror flower, moon water,’ meaning something that can be seen but not touched, like an illusion, a mirage. _

o

The whole world was dyed red.

Red sky stained by a red sunset, the sun itself bleeding out into darkened clouds in the west as it sank into the earth, into its mirror image in the puddles left in the rainstorm’s wake. Puddles long as small lakes and shimmering red, the way only water takes in light when it hemorrhages so deep a shade as this and magnifies it. Makes the world liquid as an open artery.

At four years old, Itachi had watched a man die in such a way.

He’d watched as the boy carrying him on his back took up a sword and slashed a grown man’s throat. What frightened Itachi wasn’t the act of killing itself, nor the sudden hollowness in the man’s stare as his hands flew up uselessly to press at the wound. Eyes like a ghost’s, as if he could already see a landscape beyond this one. He’d hardly registered that a second later such a fate could have been his own; samurai children are not afraid of dying, however.

Water sloshed around the older boy’s calves as he trudged through one of these deeper puddles, slowly so as not to stumble over any limbs. Off in the trees farther away, cicadas droned on.

Death surrounded them on all sides, as inescapable as air. Only hours ago, in the onslaught of battle and storm, the marshy field had been transformed to resemble a gash in the earth. He’d wanted to see it, not even knowing what it was. Wandering the wooded and rice-terraced area past his home’s borders was not unusual for Itachi; curiosity had guided him further that day. It was as if every living creature, the crows in the trees and insects in the grass, could sense something about to erupt. The impending storm, the pounding of hooves into confrontation. Itachi had underestimated the scope of the plain and ventured too close, ensnared once the clans’ skirmish blew into a full battle. Thunder roaring in the skies, from the feet of hundreds, inside of his chest.

None were as deafening as the silence that followed.

Itachi had never heard such a silence, like the air was paralyzed. All around them, the dead piling up, their faces rendered unrecognizable yet united in the same expression of lifelessness at the end.

_Bodies are such fragile things_.

The slosh of water crowded Itachi’s ears, growing more unbearable by the minute. Yet his voice would not materialize and beg the sound to go away. He could only continue to stare transfixed at the crimson sky’s reflection in the water, rippling with every step. Imagining that even the heavens were trembling. 

_I am in shock_, Itachi thought, testing the word out, like a new material between his fingertips. Like the farmer last week in the village, who’d only been able to sit paralyzed after cutting off his thumb and losing so much blood without dying. His father had relayed the story to him. How the man hadn’t been able to speak when someone finally stumbled upon him in the field, though his eyes had stayed open the whole time. Still witnessing everything around him. _This is what it feels like_.

Like palm-sweat dampening the cotton under his hands where he clung to bony shoulders. Stiff and quiet as he held on. Just gazing out at the macabre scenery colored by a dying sun.

Itachi hated this color. This intense, unforgiving shade of red.

He hated this helpless feeling, the stench of corpses festering in the stagnant puddles and humidity. He couldn’t even feel grateful to this boy who’d shown up and saved his life, annoyed at how his messy hair kept tickling his nose.

“Hey.” The owner of the messy hair turned to peer over his shoulder—there that nest of curls went again, brushing Itachi’s cheek this time—his human voice dragging Itachi out of the depths of his thoughts. “You falling asleep back there? You’ve been awfully quiet this whole time.”

_Asleep?_

As if this place weren't a nightmare anyone would hope to wake from, reality waiting somewhere else?

Could he crane his neck more, the boy would’ve met quite a pointed stare from Itachi, brows knit in an unfittingly adult way for such young, round features. The muteness plaguing him finally cracked.

“Why would I be asleep?” he demanded, instantly regretting how sullen it came out.

The boy let out a mirthful huff. “Just wondering. You can go ahead, you know, if you want to.”

“No thank you,” Itachi mumbled. “Anyways, you should be quiet, too. Someone will find us.”

“There’s no one but us here. Us and the crows.”

The remaining warriors had retreated, groups from the winning side of the bloodbath chasing after them. Surely they’d return soon, to retrieve the fallen—those who were important, at least. Itachi watched the last of the sun’s ember glow cooling down, the color no longer so severe once it congealed, and shadows draped over the hills steadily expanding fully into night. In the dark, figures moving among the battlefield had such a way of racing through the imagination.

“If they see us, they’ll think we’re looting.”

“We better reach the woods soon, then. It’ll be easier to hide there.”

Itachi nodded, conscious the older boy wouldn’t see.

“I’ll be able to find my way alone from there.”

“And risk having the Uchiha heir’s blood on my hands, if something happens afterwards?” The older boy chortled. “I don’t think so. Maybe next time don’t run away from home and find yourself in such a messy situation, huh?”

Itachi’s eyes flashed at that, unable to pinpoint if what dug under his skin more was the idea that he was pampered back at home, or if it was this boy’s know-it-all attitude when he was hardly more than a child himself. “What about you, you followed me here, didn’t you?”

His shoulders shook under Itachi’s hands as he let out a small laugh—the first pleasant sound to fall on Itachi’s ears that day. “What can I say, I couldn’t help but notice you.” He craned his head again, this time catching Itachi with the full weight of his glance. “You’re glad, though, right?”

Embarrassment flooded him. Dazed still, hollowed out by every awful thing he’d taken in that day, Itachi’s exhaustion was no match for the mortifying sensation of being tended to by another, radiating through him. The hands hooked under his knees had splotches of dried blood crusted on them; had held a sword when Itachi couldn’t.

Maybe that’s what it was that had frozen Itachi in that moment of fate—that he could not even fight for himself.

Hands too small to grip a sword-hilt, little limbs too weak.

“I can walk now.”

The boy made no move to let him down, soldiering on with careful steps up the slippery incline they’d reached. But his tone was gentle as he told him, “It’s alright. We still have a ways to go once we get to the forest. I won’t get tired.”

Voices called for the lanterns to be lit as soon as sentries picked out two small figures approaching the gate. All at once, the Uchiha compound stirred from its uneasy slumber with lights flickering to life throughout homes and at every guard post. A commotion bloomed in the courtyard, and in a matter of moments people were emerging from their houses, tired faces illuminated by candles and oil lamps. Their lights together speckled the darkness in a way Itachi couldn’t help but find reminiscent of a festival scene, only the whimsy had been overtaken by a somber and frantic tone. His brethren rushed to surround them, ushering the two boys past the gates and into their swarm of questions and care.

“Lord Fugaku’s son is alive, someone go and tell him at once!”

“Thank the goddess Kannon he’s safe!”

“Look, they have blood on their kimono!” one woman cried upon seeing the dark stains on the fronts of both boys’ clothing. “Where are you injured, child?”

Throughout the fuss, Itachi stood numbly with his hand in the other boy’s, shaking his head, ‘_no, I’m not hurt_,’ or nodding ‘_yes, I’m okay_.’ Focusing on any one face proved too difficult, in part from his weariness, and the lingering dissociation. Beside him, the other boy seemed overwhelmed, unused to the amount of attention. A muscle in his finger twitched, tightening its hold on Itachi’s.

Just then a rough voice, though no louder than those around it, boomed above the din. “Where have you been, Itachi?”

The worried aunts and other elders parted to let Fugaku through, their clan leader’s face a mask of fury. All eyes fell on them as parent and child reunited.

Itachi looked up into his father’s eyes, limned red and shining with relief despite the harshness in his stare, and recognized the fear and concern behind his anger. Ashamed, his own gaze dropped to the ground. “Forgive me.”

It wasn’t a real answer; Fugaku said nothing for a moment, standing in his riding clothes and two swords at his side—the look of a man who had been anywhere but in bed this time of night. The tension eventually thawed. 

“Come.” His father placed a hand at his back and urged him toward their house. “You owe your mother an explanation. Get inside.”

Before Itachi could open his mouth to speak, he felt himself pushed along, wrenched so swiftly apart from the other boy.

“Thank you, everyone, for helping to find my son,” his father addressed the others, bowing his head forward. “On his behalf, I ask your forgiveness in causing such trouble.”

As they started toward the steps on the verandah, Itachi turned back toward the boy he’d spent the entire day close by, and their gazes caught one last time. What kind of look was that on his face, he wondered, that expression neither fully relieved nor sad? He thought about it while his mother helped him out of his dirty clothes and inspected him for cuts and bruises, the bathwater beside them pleasantly steaming. She didn’t cry when she laid eyes on him, but took his small body into her arms and just held him there, suffusing his entire form with warmth more wholly than the hot water ever could. Yet still, in the back of Itachi’s mind there lingered the ghost of heat in his palm from where that strange boy had been holding his hand.


	2. Red Maple Leaves

_I am nobody:_

_A red sinking autumn sun_

_Took my name away._

“Come quick, the brothers are fighting!”

Another soft rumble of footsteps came padding down the corridor to join the throng they’d already amassed as an audience. Itachi paid them no heed. In this moment, his focus belonged entirely to Sasuke. Sasuke, whose height barely reached Itachi’s shoulders, yet his eyes bore the intensity of a man’s, blazing with concentrated fury like a rooster before its spurs strike.

They faced each other like statues, poised with bamboo swords tightly gripped, their tips a hand’s breadth apart. Scents of cedar and paulownia wafted before them on a light breeze that stirred the air within the broad hall of the dojo, with its twin cryptomeria beams at either end, and sunlight streaming through the open wood-paneled screens. They mirrored each other’s stance, the muscles in their feet ready to spring. Sensing for the faintest vibrations of the other’s pulse through the wood floor. Then, like a match being struck, they moved as one: rushing at one another with lightning-quick fluidity, slicing through the air that resounded with sharp clacks every time the bamboo poles met. 

Like a whirlwind of determination, every stretch of distance Sasuke was pushed back he met with renewed ferocity, slashing forward again tirelessly, searching for any trace of an opening in his older brother’s guard. Precision that would incapacitate any other opponent there in an instant. Itachi, though a larger target, was too elusive, however. Quicker than the eye and wrapped in an aura of impenetrable, icy calm, he moved like a fish through water. Another blink and suddenly he had twisted past Sasuke’s defense, so swift he appeared to phase through him, and then froze. His bamboo sword rested against the back of Sasuke’s neck.

Hushed murmurs of awe swept over the other students.

Sasuke, who’d lurched to a halt as soon as he’d felt the pole’s firmness on his skin, was equally stunned by the speed at which the match had so blazingly sparked and been decided, staring over his shoulder to where the tip hovered at nearly eye-level, as warily as if it were a battle with real swords. With a huff, then, all of that intensity melted away into a pout. “Damn…”

Itachi’s stony mask, too, cracked into a grin, his posture and gaze automatically softening down toward the slump-shouldered younger Uchiha. He lowered his weapon and offered a gentle “Sorry, Sasuke.”

“No you’re not.”

A silent laugh passed through him at that, rumbling through his shoulders. Even Sasuke couldn’t help but share in the amusement after his momentary dejection, turning to face him with a shy smile. The point hadn’t really been to win the match, Itachi knew. He could see it in the glow of Sasuke’s expression, post-adrenaline rush and still bubbling with excitement, the disappointment of defeat having rolled off of him completely. 

He fixed Itachi with an equal-parts eager and pleading look. “Let me try again, Big Brother.”

“Um, Uchiha-san,” one of the students, a boy around thirteen, had meekly approached, having been watching from the doorway with several others. “Do you think you could train us, too?”

Itachi’s cheerfulness faltered. “Well—”

“Please!” a few other voices chimed in. “Since you always fight Sasuke, we want a turn,” one added.

The crowd of onlookers had swollen to number more than Itachi at first realized, a river of dark hair sidelining the wall and spilling out into the corridor, and now that the thick tension of battle had evaporated, they broke out into chatter. Those few with enough confidence to venture near the enigmatic Uchiha brothers vied for Itachi’s attention then, as they often did when he could be seen around the training grounds. The rest were too intimidated by Sasuke’s burning, possessive glare as he all but placed himself in front of his older brother. In between the awkwardness and regret he felt at having to smother their energy with his own cool demeanor, Itachi remained conscious of the risk he was drawing in the first place, of attracting attention to himself, as well as to Sasuke. _We go over this every time_, he didn’t say.

“I’m honored, but you all know I’m no instructor—"

“What’s going on here?” came a deep voice approaching from down the hall—Raidō’s voice, Itachi already knew.

The commotion had attracted three of the senior-ranking swordsmen, Genma and Hayate along with Raidō. Just what Itachi had wanted to avoid.

Though the other two flanked Hayate, acknowledging his skill as the better, he was rarely the one to scold any of the students, leaving it instead to his stricter peers. One of the sterner and more meticulous being, of course, Raidō, who raked a humorless stare over the mass of boys, coming to settle on Itachi and Sasuke within the training hall, the practice swords still in hand.

“Surely there must be chores for all of you to do, since Hatake-sensei is not here to lead any classes today.”

The others splintered from one another and went wordlessly away at once, scurrying off to find anything to do that would remove them from the seniors’ watchful eyes.

“Hey, Itachi,” Genma called then, his tone characteristically tinged with a sardonic note. “You’re a little old to be lingering around the dojo just to play with a child opponent, don’t you think?”

“We weren’t _playing_,” Sasuke grumbled under his breath. Fortunately, it seemed only Itachi had been able to hear the retort. He answered, in contrast, with his head inclined forward and features emptied of emotion. “Yes, I got carried away. My brother and I will be more careful next time not to break the rules.”

_Careful not to get caught_, he and Sasuke seemed to share telepathically. He could practically sense his younger brother repressing a smirk.

“Don’t encourage the others next time, either.” The three started to continue ambling on their way, Genma commenting more to his acquaintances than directly to Itachi, “The celebrity worship’s getting to your head, I see.”

“Plus, you should have left for the administration building by now. It wouldn’t be a good look to keep Lord Hiruzen waiting,” Raidō added.

“Understood.”

They were out of earshot. Sasuke milled about in placing the practice swords away, rejoining Itachi’s side as soon as they were alone again. Itachi was already out on the veranda, strapping his sandals on.

“Do you have to go right now, Big Brother?”

“It’s probably for the best. We don’t want to get scolded twice in one day, right?”

“Alright.” Sasuke’s frown lasted a moment before his face lit up again with a new thought. “Hey, next time, teach me that move you did.” He continued tagging along after Itachi out toward the stone-arched gate. “I’m still trying to figure it out in my head…”

Itachi found it cute how Sasuke’s eyes took on a haze, then, re-battling him in that moment again and again. Attempting to figure him out like a calculation. He said with a grin, “Some other time. But maybe we’ll have to rise earlier, before the others.”

“Kakashi never cares if we spar,” Sasuke pointed out, unamused. They had reached the gate, Sasuke hanging back as if a veil had fallen to separate them, with Itachi paused at the threshold. “Those other teachers just hate you because they know you’re better than them.”

“Kakashi-_sensei_.” Itachi corrected. “And whether anyone else hates me—or you, for that matter—isn't important. They’re acting on orders from those above them, and there are reasons why they become anxious if it seems we’re stepping out of line.” The talk was starting to swell into a lecture, one he’d given before. ‘_Hone your skills so you’re the best, but not so great that they see you as a threat_’—advice Itachi was well-aware neither of them could really follow; maybe their blood battled against mediocrity, just like everyone told the two of them. His gaze softened apologetically, into an expression he’d come to wear reflexively before his younger brother. “Please, Sasuke, try to get along with the others. I’ll be back before too long.”

“Here at the dojo, right?”

“Right,” Itachi promised over his shoulder.

o

It was strange, how swiftly the land healed in six years.

No one could tell the grass not to regrow from the ashes of a charred field, or saplings not to spring up in place of the old and trees not to fill out, nor silence the birdsong. Nature doesn’t stall itself in mourning after disasters the way people do.

Even now, in the season of dying, the leaves adopted their most vivid colors, transforming the forest into a symphony of every shade between ocher and crimson, an ephemeral beauty that betrayed how soon it would wither away into bareness. A conflagration without smoke.

Itachi often took this way, through the wooded area bordering the city to the west, rather than the main road that connected the Hatake family dojo and scattering of smaller neighborhoods to Edo, bustling with people and horses and carts. Here, the only paths left on which to walk were carved by the tread of small animals. Rumors swirled that people had seen ghosts roaming the forest, between the trees, as well as the field down the hill where remnants of blackened beams left sticking up from the earth had become overrun by moss and weeds. If any such ghosts did exist, Itachi would have been met with one by now, he thought. Rather than creeping around the grounds seeking them out, he simply enjoyed the quiet, only the crunch of his sandals on the fallen leaves tainting the air with human contact. Traces of summer fleeted his skin, chased by the sudden breeze sighing through the branches. Overhead, where clouds were slowly sailing across a robin-egg shade of blue, quivering leaves sent dappled patterns across the indigo expanse of Itachi’s kimono wildly dancing. Here and there, clusters of mushrooms sprang up due to the recent rains, small patches of white among a sea of wet-dark red.

His mother had loved the maple leaves best when they turned this color every year.

The first year they’d moved to Edo, just before Sasuke was born, she had asked for a maple tree of their own to be planted in the back garden. Just that single, elegant tree, with its outspread branches for shade in the summer, all to their little family. He remembered how Sasuke had made a game on autumn evenings of picking out the most attractive star-shaped leaves fallen around the trunk and offering them to their mother—at times to Itachi, as well—meanwhile Itachi tended to sit beside her on the veranda and bask in the scenery. A tea tray between them, and his mother smiling to herself when Itachi let his sweet-tooth show as he finished most of the snacks on his own. Even his father would join them to relax, on occasion.

Thoughts of his parents were always floating somewhere inside him. Without Sasuke, they might’ve gnawed at him until there was nothing left.

Why were the two of them the only ones to survive such a massive fire? Was it mercy or a cruelty in disguise?

Maybe they should have joined the rest of their clan—maybe they’d been expected to, despite having merely been children, and freshly-orphaned. Samurai are never too young to be honorable.

Itachi had been eleven, certainly old enough to know how to drive the knife into his stomach; Sasuke hadn’t yet turned six.

That day, that night, they’d been catching fireflies in the woods out far, when suddenly they had caught sight of smoke rising in thick plumes in the distance, blacker than a moonless sky, and an ominous glow on the horizon. Itachi couldn’t remember how long he held Sasuke to his chest then, but it felt like a small century passed with the younger boy tightly against him, loosening his hold only when he feared he would suffocate him like a bird cupped inside his palms. As soon as they reached the slope overlooking the compound, engulfed in horror, Sasuke had screamed and tried to tear off toward the burning houses on his own.

That was another strange thing, how sometimes tragedy spurs the mind to do such a thing as run headfirst into more catastrophe, instead of safely away.

But that look in his younger brother’s eyes, the way he’d thrashed in Itachi’s arms and sobbed all through that night and many nights afterwards, continued to haunt him. He never could have allowed Sasuke to die as well. He never would, as long as he lived.

That was how Sasuke had come to be formally adopted into the Hatake family as Kakashi’s heir, and the dōjo’s future master. And Itachi, in turn, had had to relinquish his swords lest he be considered a rōnin, the Uchiha school gone and the bloodline without connections to the shōgunate. Samurai heir in name only, heir to a clanless domain. A desolate, weed-ridden plain.

The administration building was not so much a courthouse as a wide mansion, sat near the center of the city just south of the nobles’ district, with Edo castle, where the shōgun’s family lived, standing at a dignified attention in view. Past the ring of wall shielding the main house from sight in the street, a sakura tree stood on either side of the stone path, both gradually balding as bronze leaves shook away with every strong gust of wind. On days when the crowds of townspeople wanting an audience with the elders numbered too many, they’d be told to wait out there in the courtyard, first-come, first-serve to stand in the shaded areas.

Today, only Itachi waited for the council to see him, kneeling just outside their chambers in the anteroom—he and the young maid stationed by the door, who stared at her lap mostly but occasionally lifted her eyes to steal a look at him. He ignored her, however, simply staring ahead, silent and motionless. Sounds of trickling water seeped in from the garden; coupled with the painting hanging in the side alcove, of Mount Fuji signed with the character for ‘Fire,’ it made for a calming effect as intended, meant to soothe while showing off an aesthetic elegance the stipend of a government official's wealth afforded them. Itachi never had an eye for art, though, and even the temptation of the water sounds to let his mind fall into a haze was met with an enhanced alertness. He cleared his mind and tried to attune himself to the conversation going on muffled behind the screen instead.

The man speaking his case inside was a merchant, it seemed, asking for an area to construct a new food warehouse—the demand was steadily rising as Edo’s population only continued to mount, he pointed out.

“A good cause, indeed, but it may take some time to locate such a place, with the city already expanding so much the last decade, and resources for building already in high demand, as well,” Hiruzen’s voice could be heard saying. “How soon are you proposing to have it done by?”

“Before winter would be best, but my family’s survival wouldn’t depend on it,” the merchant admitted.

Something about Hiruzen Sarutobi extracted honesty from others who sought his favor, even those of the merchant class, typically known for greed and opportunism. His own reputation of generosity, perhaps. From the peasant class to his fellow nobles, Hiruzen was known as a kind and well-intentioned old man. People from all sorts of backgrounds came to him when they needed a loan in private, or more often they went to him publicly for leniency and fairness in settling legal matters between neighbors.

“I agree, however,” a female voice put in. “That it would be wiser to go forward on this project sooner than later. If the only issue is a matter of area, there are still land claims underway for certain families that are yet to be reviewed, may I remind the rest of you.”

“Very well, we can find one of these cases and perhaps negotiate something.”

“If it means avoiding the risk of food shortages, what need is there for a negotiation, especially with those who didn’t side with the Tokugawa?” a different voice countered – one all-too unpleasantly familiar to Itachi.

“There should be no need to reopen old struggles, either.”

“If the city is too crowded as you say, Hiruzen, why not look to the western fields?”

Itachi found he’d leaned slightly forward, despite himself.

A thoughtful pause went by, before he answered. “Wait until spring. That will give us time to legally arrange a plot of land, and you will have until then to get your materials in order, as well. Do any of you object?”

The other elders remained silent. It was good enough, or likely just not worth arguing over any further. But the frustration bubbling under the surface remained tangible, even out to where Itachi sat. What could seem like a penchant for peaceful resolutions was more often than not just Hiruzen’s habit of pushing matters aside, rather avoidant of any firm decisions, as Itachi had come to know of his nature by now. 

“Thank you, honorable council,” the merchant addressed them reverently.

The maid slid the door open as the merchant backed out of the chamber, head bowed, before taking his leave. Itachi watched him out the corner of his eye, neither of them looking directly at the other.

“Itachi,” Hiruzen called him, summoning him forward.

The council room was large and rather chilly. Too spacious for the five of them within, and somewhat dim for the time of day. A long table separated Itachi from the elders, who sat elevated on a higher-leveled floor. Embellished at its center was the character for ‘Truth.’ All four of them watched him: Homura and the lady Koharu seated left to Hiruzen, and the last member, Danzo Shimura, at his right hand.

Danzo, a relic of the warring clans era like his peers there, yet so unlike Hiruzen, was the man citizens approached when they wanted to request swifter and more severe punishments against those they felt had wronged them. He oversaw most criminal matters, as well as the Edo police force, but was probably most infamous for the web of informants and spies he had enlisted in his personal command.

Among the quieter things people murmured about Danzo, a rumor flitted here and there that he was not noble by birth, in fact, but had snagged status through his late wife, who’d died before bearing him any children.

Itachi approached with his eyes cast down, carefully kneeling onto the mat provided and offering a deep bow. “Forgive my lateness. I didn’t know my services were required today until just a while ago.”

“You can sit up,” Hiruzen instructed, kindness in his tone. “This isn’t about your scribe duties—but it is to do with your career.”

_What career_, he wondered bitterly, remaining stoic on the outside as though it were an art. After a handful of years working only in lower administrative roles, he’d had to content himself with only being able to climb the ladder so high. To suddenly address his position sent a spark of apprehension through him.

Itachi raised his face to them, bracing himself for their expectant eyes. Homura’s and Koharu’s judgmental, as always. Danzo’s single, perpetually narrowed eye burning through him. With the weak light cast over their aged features, they looked to be made of stone. Hiruzen appeared pleased with himself regarding whatever news he was holding inside, a wan smile playing at his lips.

“I’ve been contemplating long and hard, Itachi, while watching you assist me these last several years, on where I believe you’d fit best in a more permanent arrangement. I know things have not been easy, adjusting to everything.”

“You have my gratitude, for taking my younger brother and myself under your protection so long ago,” Itachi stated, lowering his eyes again to where his hands were splayed on his lap. It came practically as recital, for how often he’d felt pressured by circumstance to repeat the sentiment. “I am in your debt.”

“Careful, now, I’m still working myself up to the idea of sending you into someone else’s service,” he chortled. “Now that my memory is starting to fail me at times, as it did my father, I’m afraid you’re becoming quite invaluable to me. You’re a sharp young man, efficient—not to mention, an excellent strategist.”

“But there is a lot of competition for high positions these days, even among the very talented and skilled,” Danzo broke in.

Itachi’s attention darted to him, only for a moment.

“I have confidence in Itachi’s abilities, however,” Hiruzen stated. He shifted his gaze back to youth kneeling before him with, “Which is why I mentioned you in my correspondence with the daimyō of the Maeda and Matsudaira clans.”

Two families closely tied to the Tokugawa. Of the noble hierarchy that made up the ranking of old samurai clans, theirs were some of the nearest to the top, by virtue of being born lucky. Itachi stared at him, unsure what to expect.

“They’re interested in meeting you.”

Koharu suddenly tweaked the conversation. “Remind us, Itachi – how old are you now?”

“Seventeen.”

“You’ve not yet celebrated your coming-of-age ceremony, have you?”

It should have happened months ago, just before the summer festival season ignited. If Itachi had been allowed to continue his training all this time, he’d be welcomed into adulthood with the promise of a more personal master to apprentice himself to, graduating from the general classes to a blood oath of close mentorship. Someone whose skills marked them as transcendent of the average samurai, with something yet to teach a former prodigy like Itachi. In another lifetime, it might have been Kakashi.

“No,” he answered.

Hiruzen beamed.

“That settles it, then. We shall put it off a while longer and arrange your ceremony to take place after the new year, so the daimyō will have arrived for the alternating year and be able to witness it.”

Itachi could do nothing but nod his assent. A handful of months more – what could it matter? The council had come to a decision together before he’d even set foot in their presence that day.

His silence caused Hiruzen to take on a grandfatherly glint in his eyes, going on with a different tone, “The wait is hard, I understand, but your patience will be rewarded. You will see. Everything that blooms has its own season.”

“Yes.” Mechanically, he folded himself forward into a deep bow again, palms and forehead pressed to the floor. His hair fell around his face, hiding him for that long moment where he wished to stay. “I am very grateful.”

His normally brisk steps became weighed down on the way outside, heavy with thought. In the courtyard, the autumn light shone feebly, gentle on the eyes. Itachi lingered by the steps after fastening his sandals, not really sure where to go, but certain there was nothing he could say if he went back inside. ‘Wait a little longer’ the council had told him—Hiruzen had told him, at least. No doubt it had been the others who had pressed him to release Itachi from his personal service, too apprehensive of his Uchiha blood to let him remain comfortably near the city government, especially now that he saddled the cusp of adulthood. Knowing Hiruzen’s pace, they must have been urging him for some time now.

Once they pushed him off into a daimyō’s service, the elders would effectively be rid of him.

Itachi could visualize it, too, his future owned by one of the Tokugawa families: placed in some menial position in a fief far from the capital where he’d remain, regardless of whether his lord stayed at his estate or returned to Edo every other year. They’d be all too pleased to collect one of the remaining Uchiha heirs, he was sure, like a priceless artifact added to a storage of Heian antiques; might even arrange Itachi to marry one of their girls so they’d possess part of his bloodline, as well, and all the while what a great honor it would be.

He’d be lucky to see his younger brother again.

The slow cadence of one walking with a cane announced itself behind him. Itachi turned to see Danzo approach, his expression hard to make out with half his features hidden behind an eyepatch. It was said his face and right arm had been marred during a spar years earlier. Who this swordsman was who’d wounded him, neither Itachi nor anyone but him seemed to know.

Danzo had never liked Itachi. The other elders, Koharu and Homura, had not exactly made their prejudices toward him and his entire clan secret, either, yet for Danzo this glint of scorn in his eye was tinged with obsession. Envy, even.

Despite how the elder’s attention disrupted him, due in equal parts to unease and annoyance, if Itachi didn’t extend basic courtesy he knew Danzo would find subtle ways to target him later.

“Should I call a palanquin for you, Lord Danzo?”

“I am not returning home just yet,” the old man stated. “Just getting my fill of fresh air.”

He went silent, but came to pause next to Itachi. Here, away from the chamber room where he’d looked down on him just before, Itachi stood several inches taller than him. Danzo remained rooted there as if meaning to go on, which Itachi had no choice but to await. He watched the man gaze out at the courtyard from under the shade of the eaves, apparently fixated on a couple birds who were pecking at a spot in the grass.

“What wasted potential you have,” Danzo finally remarked.

The words floated out as if they were conversing about the weather, so matter-of-factly that Itachi sensed his intent was not to outright insult him. A small crease formed between his brows, nonetheless. “What do you mean?” he asked, already knowing.

“It is a waste that so many samurai are confined behind bureaucratic desks nowadays, with no more battles to wage. Even more saddening is it when a samurai of your caliber gets hidden away underneath it all. In a different era, your name would likely be known everywhere. You must be aware already that leaving the capital will improve nothing for you now.”

“I was under the impression that no member of the council objected to this.”

“Hiruzen has his own ideas of doing what’s right,” he replied. “As the higher-ranking machi-bugyō, he holds greater sway over the rest of us. I’ve made my thoughts on the matter clear.”

Itachi countered, entertaining a different stance, “Still, serving a great clan within a fief would not be without merits. Many rōnin come to Edo in the hopes of getting hired by lords with their own domains.”

“Perhaps. However, just because their servants eat well, that doesn’t make them any less of servants.” Danzo readied his cane again and started to make his way down the corridor without properly excusing himself, down to where a retainer dressed in dark clothing stood awaiting him. “But maybe I’m just remembering a time before the peaceful days.”

o

Danzo had made a point. Even so, instinct told Itachi that it was simply out of a more personal agenda underlying his feigned concern for Itachi’s limitations. A man like that didn’t give out advice unless he had something to gain from it.

But this knowledge did not make his frustration any less palpable.

Itachi made his way outside the nobles’ district through the market area where commoners bustled. The trees’ and buildings’ shadows stretched toward the east as daylight was fast fading this time of year. Smells of frying oil and meat cooking over braziers floated around the food stalls he passed, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since morning. Hungry and discouraged, Itachi entertained the idea of buying a few sticks of dango from one of the vendors nearby. It probably wouldn’t cheer him up the way he hoped, but it would solve at least one of his immediate problems. 

He’d always known he’d have to work his way up from the bottom, regardless of what path the council laid out for him. Before being allowed in meetings as their scribe, he’d acted as messenger between them—considerably a more noble occupation than working as a laborer, like other rōnin increasingly had to do.

Edo was the city of idle samurai, its streets and taverns and teahouses swarming with men who wore twin swords at their waists. Without warlords to hire them and with many of them losing their families’ domains as the shōgunate continued to eat up smaller clans’ territories, most of them now busied themselves challenging each other to petty duels, or, lower yet, picking fights with the commoner class. Often such bloody encounters ignited over exchanged insults, less-than-respectful glances—such was enough to merit a samurai’s right to test his blade out on anyone who didn’t carry one. All in the name of protecting one’s honor, or so they said.

As much as Itachi disdained that type of samurai’s arrogance and nonchalance, part of him could understand their restlessness. He bit off another clump of rice dough and chewed thoughtfully.

His situation was not unlike theirs, yet Itachi knew those who saw him walking the streets, swordless despite the paper fan crest on his back, disdained him, as well. Was it because he still retained a bit of prestige through his name alone, or because they would never be able to test their skills against the famed surviving Uchiha warrior? Either way, their lips quirked in mockery and derision his way whenever they seemed to think Itachi didn’t notice.

He finished the last of the three skewers he’d bought and rose to head for the Hatake dōjo, as he’d promised Sasuke.

As the throngs of people thinned down farther from the market center, suddenly a sound began to rise above the footsteps and conversation, heavy notes of a lute carrying through the air.

“_Where does the moon disappear to every month? Does it visit the land of the dead_…”

The singer’s voice wasn’t extraordinarily beautiful. Unpolished, even, although that seemed to infuse an almost charming quality of its own. But the sound of it was haunting, like a spell that seeped into one’s flesh. It pierced Itachi through with a strange melancholy, gripped at something in his chest that wasn’t familiar enough to be his heart.

Walking toward it, he came upon the source at one of the small temples near the edge of the city. A handful of townspeople had stopped to gather around the performer, the crowd gradually swelling as more people making their way by slowed and became intrigued just as Itachi was. Under the branches of a large ginkgo tree, a man knelt with the instrument poised in his lap, clad in a moss-green kimono that seemed over-worn, as if they were traveling robes. 

His voice rose and fell with his singing, wavering the way a falling leaf trails through the air, melding with the lute.

“_Hands clasped in prayer – how sad when they part_

_Like autumn leaves untethering – falling, slowly_.”

Normally it was blind old men who sang ballads with their lutes on the sides of country paths and temple steps, or on street corners like this—beggars with no other means of work. But this man kneeling before them looked to be quite young, strong-jawed and a full head of messy raven hair, though it was unusually short and not tied up in any style. Among the tumbling black waves, a couple golden fan-shaped ginkgo leaves had floated down and gotten caught, one snagged in a curl by his brow. The leaves in his hair, the effect of his poignant tone on the spellbound audience and the angle of light through the branches overhead, all laid an aura of otherworldliness over him that made Itachi think of forest spirits. He went on, unbothered, face slightly tilted down and eyes closed as if in meditation as the words flowed from him:

“…_Falling, gently, _

_To that other world, where _

_My loved ones are._

_How strange their ‘farewell’_

_Brings them to the one I miss_.”

The air stilled as the song drew to an end, and the singer raised his face to the crowd.

It became clear at once that there was nothing at all wrong with his sight as he lifted his eyes and instantly they snagged Itachi’s. Eyes like glittering black pools, pitch dark moons above an amiable smile that seemed to hold him in place. As if in that smile he knew every thought and memory Itachi harbored.

The contact lasted a second—a split second too long—before Itachi broke his stare away in bewilderment and started to turn and carry on in his route, forcing calm into his steps. He didn’t look back as the others began to lightly clap, some tossing coins as thanks for the performance. Several bodies parted for Itachi upon recognizing his samurai clothing, intimidated by his unsmiling expression, but for Itachi their faces crowded and blurred his vision, his legs straining to carry him past the forest of people there and along the street. Under his cotton robes, he began to perspire despite the cool temperature. As he hurried along, he questioned why the man’s glance his way had affected him so strangely all of a sudden: that odd, overly familiar quirk of his lips after singing such a mournful tune, drawing Itachi in with his mellow voice only to trap him in such a direct stare. It left him with a sensation like stumbling, somehow, even though he’d been frozen in place the entire time.

Like fox demons in old stories, when they pick out an unfortunate mortal to bewitch.

o

Itachi was still feeling feverish from the encounter as he sat across from his younger brother, a small writing desk between them that they’d turned into a battlefield. Upon the smooth wood surface, Sasuke’s white army awaited his command in taking down Itachi’s black forces. Since childhood, shogi had been a competitive ritual between the brothers, requiring as much skill as the sword. Also like their sword training, Sasuke had yet to beat his older brother in a match.

Itachi watched his expression as he pored over every piece, the sharp gleam of calculation in his eyes.

Despite his best efforts to get invested in their game today as Sasuke was, he couldn’t chase away the somber traces at the edges of his mind. The news from the council, Danzo’s grim words. The off-putting eye contact he’d shared with that stranger. All pushed to invade his mood. His time with Sasuke like this felt more precious than ever, yet it was causing him gloom, something Sasuke, too, noticed as Itachi only emerged from his pensiveness to move his own piece.

“I got one of your generals,” he announced. “Why’re you acting so bored?”

“Sorry.” Itachi sat up and remedied his mood. “’M just tired.”

A flicker of concern passed over Sasuke’s expression. “Did they make you record that many pages today?”

“No, not at all. Lord Hiruzen just wanted to discuss some things with me today.”

He looked intently over the board, making up for his earlier flashes of spacing out. The field was more even, not a total conquest from Itachi’s side like it usually played out.

“What kind of things?”

Itachi took his turn carefully this time. 

“He told me my position there is invaluable.” Which wasn’t a lie. Changing the subject, he adopted a new tone. “What did Kakashi have you study today?”

Sasuke moved his rook, taking longer this time, as if not quite satisfied with his choice. “Calligraphy and history.”

“Tell me about them. You know I like history.”

“You’re just trying to distract me.”

Itachi smiled. “What about any sword training?”

Despite himself, Sasuke launched into relaying more. “Just boring stuff with the class. He still has us do the basics all the time. But Kakashi said he’s going to start teaching me one-on-one soon.”

The news caused Itachi to glance up, genuinely surprised. “That’s great,” he told him sincerely. Sasuke was so young still, yet already Kakashi was going to place him into individual training. A mess of emotions fled through him, all of them mostly positive, however. Itachi had never been allowed that path, but now at least Sasuke would get the proper training he had been denied. “You must be excited.”

Sasuke lowered his attention shyly back to the board. “I still wish I could train under you, though, Big Brother.”

He moved his piece aside, anticipating the next turn.

“Itachi,” Sasuke began suddenly, voice smaller than before. “What was it like training with Father?”

The question caught Itachi square in the chest, although it was not the first time Sasuke had asked. He answered levelly. “You also trained with him, don’t you remember?”

“Only once,” Sasuke admitted, melancholy gaze still fixed to the board. “But he basically spent the whole time talking about how great you were.”

Itachi’s hand paused a moment before finishing his move.

Their father had been a stern perfectionist. Every bit as meticulous in raising his sons to be swordsmen worthy of the Uchiha name as he’d been in his other obligations as the clan patriarch. Recalling those strained emotions, the way Itachi had been favorited while Sasuke had always been left chasing after their father’s approval, always seemed to cross a forbidden threshold in his memory.

“He used to talk about you a lot, too, you know. How great of a warrior you’d be someday, Sasuke.”

“I know. You already told me.”

“I’m telling you again.” He offered a smile, tilting his head forward so he’d catch Sasuke’s attention and drag it from looking down, until his grin spread to the younger boy as well. Until grins lit both of their faces.

“Tell me instead how the Uchiha style of fighting originated.”

Itachi gave a short laugh. “Which version? The tengu one again?”

“Yeah.” His favorite.

“Many generations ago, our ancestor, Madara Uchiha, was known as one of the most fearsome warriors. As he amassed power and led the clan through countless victories during the early Sengoku period, a legend arose that he’d learned his style of sword-fighting from training under a tengu in the mountains, but then betrayed his tengu master by passing those skills onto other humans.”

“Or that he stole a tengu’s sword and used it as his own.”

“Mn,” Itachi assented. “Or the first Uchiha who originated the bloodline, Indra-no-Mikoto, was actually a tengu himself. Anyways,” he led Sasuke’s attention to the board again, where he’d pushed the assassinated monarch from its place. “That’s game. Time to turn in for the night.”

“You _were_ distracting me,” Sasuke accused. “I guess that’s alright, though. If you’re resorting to tricks, it means I stood a chance at winning.”

Itachi answered with a grin, careful not to confirm or deny it.

While Sasuke cleared the desk and placed the shogi pieces back into a box, Itachi pushed the writing desk toward the corner of the room and retrieved the bedding. Sasuke blew out the candle and took his place on the mat beside Itachi’s.

After a couple sleepless minutes, Sasuke turned to face Itachi. “Where do you think those legends came from, Big Brother?” he murmured.

"About tengu?"

"And their retribution. Do tengu cast curses on people?"

“Well, I'm not sure about that part. These kinds of tales have always existed in some form, I suppose. It’s human nature to crave meaning in everything, so we make life seem more grandiose and strange.”

“But they have to start somewhere.”

“You think a tengu really appeared to Madara Uchiha?” Itachi asked with amusement.

“No,” Sasuke retorted. “Forget it, Big Brother. I’ll ask Kakashi then.” With that, he turned the opposite way and left his back to Itachi.

Itachi bit back a chuckle, not wanting to incense him further. He hadn’t meant to tease, but he couldn’t deny that it felt nice to have such a lighthearted argument like this, with so many tensions plaguing him. Those inklings of hopelessness came creeping back in as he remembered the elders, their desire to send him away, and separate him from his brother.

His whole world was here—_Sasuke_ was here. Tracing his gaze over his younger brother’s form, studying how his breathing was beginning to slow as he melted into a dream, Itachi determined he would let nothing stop him from continuing to watch over him.

He’d find a way to stay.

o

The most peculiar, uncanny sight, no more than a glimpse in passing on his way, and yet it had shaken him to his very core.

Danzo had not trembled in years. Decades, even. Yet he was certain he’d seen a ghost from the past—no, that face _should_ have belonged to a ghost.

That wild hair, those eyes—_that man’s_ eyes, but not quite. How eerily they stabbed through him with familiarity, though, seeming to look out beyond him. Taunting him with the illusion that he was a stranger, when it couldn’t have been the case. Or was it a trick of the light?

As Danzo sat hunched over his writing desk, dying candlelight throwing shadows over his vulture-like form, across the walls and the scrolls of officially-recognized lineage charts sprawled open before him, flashes of scenery and movement captured long ago seemed to whirl in front of him:

_A beautiful youth, slicing his sword through the air as if in rapturous dance. Moving as though it is an extension of his body, lithe and strong. The way dancing cranes move as one. Black ocean waves of hair whipping around him every time he spins, catching the falling blossoms_…

The memory always ignited a mixture of feelings in him, deep and unwanted like something abandoned at the bottom of a well. And to think now fear was one of them. But fear is an emotion for children, and rationality told him the possibility of the figure he saw really being him, after all this time, was so slim, just a stray hair in his sight.

A single hair in his line of vision, but a distraction, nonetheless.

Danzo was sure of his remaining eye, old as it was, sure with every fiber that he would never mistake anyone else for _his_ countenance. No stretch of time could erase those features from his memories.

He’d been the one to witness his death, his eyes falling shut in resignation, his body falling limp. Never to hold a sword again.

_How dare he spite me by living on, after all this time_, he thought gravely.

Ultimately, he really had been left with no other choice. Caution had gotten him this far in his career, after all.

“Sugaru.”

A figure emerged from the shadows at the corner of the room. A man who’d been there, wordlessly attentive the whole time, waiting for his master’s instruction. Cloaked in black and the majority of his bowed face obscured by a dark hood, only his nose and tight-lipped mouth were visible. A large scar peeked out from the collar of his robes, remnants of a gash that had left his voice permanently damaged, though he rarely used it. A fitting quality for a spy, which had made him one of Danzo’s most useful, and most deadly.

Danzo glanced up finally from his records, tearing his gaze away at last from the official records displaying the Uchiha branch bloodlines, down to the last spot where a girl’s name marked its end. He fixed the other man grimly with his single, narrowed eye, reflecting the sputtering flame.

“There is someone I require you to dispose of.”

o

Someone entered the room. Slipped past the shoji screen silently, weightlessly, as a shadow.

Without opening his eyes, Itachi felt the disturbance in his surroundings, slowing his pulse to feign sleep. He sensed the dagger he kept underneath his sleeping mat at all times, how swiftly he could have it joined in his fist and at the intruder’s throat before they could blink.

They’d be dead in that time. They need only come closer, and like a snake Itachi would strike.

Moments went by. But strangely no attack came, halted as if he was being studied instead. Like a painting’s subject, all the more perverse without his own understanding of it or consent. And more disturbing yet he became aware all too suddenly that the air was devoid of Sasuke’s soft breathing beside him. The air was eerily noiseless all around, in fact, giving nothing off from any of the rooms behind the walls, just a sense-muffling stillness. Foul and oddly familiar. It was choking him.

Panic stabbed his brain. His eyes flew open, but the assailant was already pressing down upon him, pinning Itachi’s elbows under his knees and wrapping strong hands around his throat. Itachi struggled under the weight, attempting to kick and buck the stranger away, but it proved ineffective as the attacker only tightened his hold more severely around Itachi’s neck, silencing his grunting and stilling him with the pain. Amid the thoughts tumbling in his mind as he squirmed and wrestled, the smell of burning thickened.

_The fire is a distraction?_ Or was this man intending to hold him there while they both perished?

In seconds, flames filled the room, licking up the wooden beams and devouring the shoji walls, smoke billowing around them. Itachi’s vision stung with tears as he choked on the acridity and the grip ironlike around his windpipe. His strength was failing him, leaving him dizzy and desperate, unable to squeeze out a sound even if he’d wanted to plead for his life. A thread of saliva slid out of the corner of Itachi’s mouth. Yet the dark figure looming over his face seemed completely unfazed. Covered head to foot, only his eyes were visible above his cloth mask.

Eyes like ink-black moons, poring into his own with the lute singer’s haunting gaze. So at ease, they seemed to be holding a pleasant smile in their depths. Meanwhile the heel of his palm pressed firmly down, squishing soft tissue until it met bone—

Itachi jolted awake, every nerve in his body pricked up on alert as when lightning strikes too close by. His breathing came hard, full, heavy panting as if he’d been holding it in while dreaming all this time, terror’s claws still sunk in him. He pushed himself to sit up shakily, digesting his surroundings once his vision adjusted to the dark. Sasuke laid sprawled on the mat beside his, perfectly unscathed, lips slightly parted and brows relaxed. Relief, and the speed of his pulse, both cast bruise-like spots in Itachi’s sight as gradually he regained his sense of placement. Yet even as his breathing became normal again, he couldn’t bring himself to feel at ease.

_What was that_? he wondered. A nightmare he felt unable to fully shed, clinging to some part of him he couldn’t see.

A moment later Itachi noticed the dark stain where a stickiness was cooling on his thighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- epigraph poem by Richard Wright, from Haiku: This Other World  
\- "machi-bugyo" = equivalent of a city commissioner, mayor, and judge, among other roles
> 
> I hope this AU is an enjoyable read so far! Please comment and let me know what you think ^^


	3. Ginkgo-Dappled Shadows

All the world was drenched in the pre-morning blue.

Not a soul stirred. Not even peddlers were roaming the streets of Edo yet with their readied wares and expansive voices traveling over the mists that crept along the canals, the patches of fog that made ghostly, almost human shapes. An austere quiet lingered delicately in the air, as if the earth held its breath. Everywhere there seemed to be a bleariness overlaying each surface, one that smoothed away the nuances of their features in the scant visibility – silhouettes of deer limned red by the coming sun, the setting moon glowing feebly behind a veil of cloud, appearing as if trapped in ice.

Out beyond the fringes of the market center, a ginkgo tree stood, massive and ancient like the forest’s grandmother. Hundreds of arms outspread from her body, she shed herself away leaf by leaf into a sea of gold at her feet, blanketing the ground where all beginnings and ends seemed to merge. Time took on a different quality here, sometimes frozen, sometimes not flowing in a single direction like rivers do but rather pulsing like the ocean, ebbing back and forth. A place that invited weary spirits to rest within the junction of trunk and roots.

A soft breeze fluttered through her being, leaves faintly glittering and set alight. Bleeding out from the horizon, dawn’s rosiness had begun to creep into the blue like a stain, long fingers of light stretching over the rows of rooftops and ocher canopies. Thin plumes of smoke were beginning to rise from houses and trail up into the sky.

Under the ginkgo tree’s branches, only two creatures ventured close at this hour – stray dogs sniffing and pawing at the shaded ground, tiny fan-shaped curls drifting down around them and catching onto their fur without their noticing or care.

Somewhere beneath the carpet of dead leaves, a body laid cold in the earth.

o

"It feels premature to say that I am lucky to have lived this long. But as one who lived to see the end of the warring era, there was a time when I was almost certain I would die a young man."

Danzo’s residence held a chilly, stagnant quality in the air. Like a creature choked dead and left abandoned on the ground, staring sightlessly through still-open eyes. A coldness that prickled Itachi’s skin under his layered robes and left him uneasy. Even the barley tea served to him when he first arrived had been offered only as a lukewarm, perfunctory gesture.

"Lord Danzo never struck me as someone who relies on luck,” Itachi remarked, more from an unspoken obligation to comment as much than a genuine observation.

"It's simply an expression. But you are right about that – I prefer to carve out my own path rather than leaving it to chance. A man’s willpower is the only thing he can truly count on, nothing else." 

The length of a hearth-sized tatami mat divided them where they knelt facing each other, Danzo in his place as the host, Itachi as his guest. They had been occupying the reception room for the better part of the morning, since Itachi had found himself summoned out-of-the-blue by one of Danzo’s messengers and brought before him.

The room was bare of decorations save for a single statuette in the side alcove, a wooden Bishamonten figure frozen in astute attention, carved with a ring of flames arching from its shoulders over its head. The screen door facing out toward the courtyard remained shut, imbuing in him the feeling that they were trapped inside a large box—he, Danzo, and the maid who lingered wordlessly by the door and waited on them with refreshments, who Itachi suspected was very much capable of slitting any guest’s throat if Danzo so ordered her to.

Every servant stationed in his house must have doubled as guard and spy, Itachi surmised. This one in particular appeared young and not unattractive, with dark eyes shining under neatly trimmed bangs. Yet there was a hardness in her unsmiling expression that betrayed a constant wariness, that Itachi couldn’t help but perceive vaguely as threatening. His tea sat untouched.

Danzo brought his own cup to his lips and sipped pensively for a moment, not caring to look directly at Itachi. "Did you know, there's an old superstition about having deep lines on the face as pronounced as yours. It marks those who are destined for many misfortunes.”

Just as they had a week ago, Danzo’s words hung in the air and flitted an uneasy border between provocation and unapologetic frankness. As if like needles they could slip under his skin and deliver into Danzo’s hands whatever flowed out for him to mold by his own design.

Adopting the Bishamonten in the alcove’s manner, Itachi remained impassive. “I’ve never heard of such saying.”

“Would you say it's fitting, perhaps, based on your own experiences?"

"I have come to believe that some things simply happen, and it is our own perceptions that shape what we make of them," he calmly replied.

"So you agree, not luck, but willpower, makes up what we call ‘Fate.’"

Once again, such a simple observation felt slippery coming from Danzo’s mouth. Itachi searched the old man’s expression, but that stony face gave away as little as his own did. Nothing but the shadows sunken into his features, as the glow behind him gradually brightened across the walls. It must have been approaching noon by now. His apprehension was beginning to simmer into frustration.

"Forgive me, but what is the purpose of this meeting?"

"To make simple conversation, for one thing, since it's a rare occurrence between us.” With a clink, Danzo placed his tea back on its lacquer tray. “Of course, I must take some responsibility for that, having waited this long in speaking to you about more serious matters. I blame Hiruzen in some ways, as well, always preoccupying you with meaningless work.”

The mention of Hiruzen lingered uncomfortably over their heads—a fourth party trapped into the square room with them—yet Danzo went on.

“But our little talk last week has caused me to reflect on several things, actually. At this age in my career—in the current age we are all in, as well—I have witnessed so many peculiar changes. Even battles are waged differently nowadays, with speech and poems, within tearooms. Warriors learn the way of the sword for recreation rather than self-defense.” Any bitterness toward these latter customs remained masked within a philosophical matter-of-factness, his tone level though tinged with its usual melancholy. They could have been discussing the changing leaves outside, the quality of the tea. “It’s a pity, honestly. I’d venture to say it’s unfair, even, to our predecessors, to think we’ve grown so soft as a people in such short time. But, I suppose, unfairness is a concept for children, and those who can adapt to the changing times are still the victors, nonetheless. Even for those of us who remember the past clearly, it is a necessity." He fixed his lone eye on Itachi at last, a single ember burning half beneath the hood of his unmarred eyelid. “I had advised you, Itachi, that relocation would not solve the matter of your potential. And indeed, I still believe that to be true. But perhaps a simple change in scenery, so to speak, will.”

A sense of dread began to well up in Itachi, already certain where this stream of thought was coursing into.

“I may have taken a while to approach you, but I have been watching you closely for a long time. Which is why I believe that here, under a more direct mentorship on my part, it would resolve the issue of finding the right niche for your skillset.”

_There. Just as expected. _

Like pieces shifting on a board of shōgi, Itachi could feel the sharp turn of their discussion begin to veer him into an imaginary corner. Danzo’s expectant stare before him, the silent maid’s eyes remaining at his back.

Itachi bowed his head forward. “It would be considered a great honor to be sponsored by Lord Danzo. However, Lord Hiruzen did not seem keen on releasing me from his service just yet.”

“Hiruzen is an old friend,” he replied simply, after another a long sip. _So exceptions will be made_.

A troubled pause went by.

“If I were to accept, what is it you would want from me in return?”

“A samurai shouldn’t have to ask that. You would pledge your loyalty to the one you serve, just as the rest of my retinue do.”

“I have always served the machi-bugyō dutifully.”

Now it was Danzo’s turn to study him. His tone shifted, reverted back to that philosophical edge.

“There’s something I have always wondered about you, Itachi. Why, when stepping down from your position as a recognized clan heir, you opted for lower tier administrative work, instead of, for example, becoming an acolyte at a local temple. Swearing off the world completely and becoming a monk – plenty of other samurai have done it before. Famous samurai. I figured an ascetic lifestyle would suit you rather well, actually; you’ve never struck me as a very materialistic man.”

“I have been told for many years that I am quick and precise with a brush. When Lord Hiruzen recommended that I replace his scribe, it was not my place to argue.”

“Yes, I remember. But _he_ could not have argued if you’d declared that you would devote yourself to a temple. You still can, in fact. Even right now.”

A silence fell over them, thick and pregnant with doubt. As if waiting for one of them to make the next move. Just as he decided the fates of thieves and murderers, Danzo seemed to peer down at him, watching Itachi process his suggestion with the stolid countenance of one of the lords of the underworld.

“So why not? Just shave your head and trade your hakama for plain robes. Then you’ll be able to remain in Edo, with your younger brother, as simple as that. That _is_ what makes staying worthwhile, isn’t it?”

Itachi remained silent, staring back evenly. At the proposition of an escape, at the way Danzo was dangling Sasuke before him, as if keeping the brothers from separating was anywhere near the realm of the old man’s concerns.

“Or is there something else?”

Itachi closed his eyes for a moment, releasing a pent-up breath. “There are responsibilities I’m more equipped at handling while I am not tied down with religious or spiritual obligations.” 

“As well as freedom to indulge yourself, I’m sure.”

“’Indulge’ myself?” He couldn’t keep the note of puzzlement from slipping into his tone.

“I heard a story last week, about a handful of sensei at their dōjo becoming annoyed when a certain pair of Uchiha were not following the rules set out for them.”

_Those three_. A surge of his own, reciprocal annoyance threatened to stab a headache into Itachi’s brain as he fought off a scowl. “I see,” he deadpanned.

“Don’t mistake my intentions, I’m not interested in bored, petty chatter that floats around the city. An Uchiha without a sword in his hands may as well turn to stone. I can’t say I blame you for giving in to such urges.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Let me be forward with you: I’m willing to restore your samurai status. Not to the full rank your father once held—even with my executive influence, I can’t make it happen overnight. But as far as reclaiming your birthright, it’s a long-overdue start. In exchange, you will work directly under me on an internal security force.”

His pulse thrummed in his ears.

Itachi’s birthright—had he heard that correctly?

As every word seeped into him, thoughts began to swim through Itachi’s mind, too fast and in too many directions for him to capture all at once: talk of the fire that had devoured his family and faces that could prophesy misfortunes, the serving girl’s menacing silence and his own distrust toward Danzo that blared like a cicada inside of him when the elder leered too close. The fact that if this meeting progressed any further, he might be betraying Hiruzen. Little by little, the room would begin to close on him fully before long, containing him in a tiny space all muted and statuesque like the Bishamonten figure for Danzo to show off.

Before such an offer seduced him, he knew he had to break away.

“I need some time to contemplate this.”

“You have until dusk to send your answer. This arrangement is time-sensitive, I likely don’t need to remind you.”

o

The air split with a whistle then solid _thwack_. In the golden light of the afternoon, an arrow protruded from the near-perfect center of a straw target.

Sasuke relaxed his form, letting his long-bow rest horizontally at his flank. He began the trek across the clearing to retrieve the arrow again, the tall grass hugging his legs.

Melancholy colored his mood lately, though he tried to keep it at bay with rigorous practice. A line of identical targets, coarse cloth pulled tight over bales shaped vaguely humanesque like scarecrows, bore an arrow each at their bull’s eye. Save for this last one, off by a hair’s breadth. Sasuke plucked it out with a sigh, looking out to where he’d stood before at the edge of the field that hugged the woods on Hatake land. His solitary training was having the opposite effect, only making him more restless as the days dragged on.

Kakashi should have been instructing him. He’d made some excuse for his absence earlier, after arriving late to their morning training. In return, Sasuke had acted unfazed, even aloof, at having their sparring put off. Yet what was the point of Kakashi agreeing to take him under his wing if he was still going to be doing everything by himself, he wondered with mounting impatience.

Days would tumble into months would tumble into years. He couldn’t afford to sit by idly, softening without the right fire to refine him.

In his head, his older brother chortled at him for thinking so drastically. _Don’t be in such a rush to grow up so fast, Sasuke_. Easy enough for someone who’s already perfect to say, he thought. But if Itachi were here, if he were allowed to truly spend time with him, maybe he wouldn’t have to feel this way, grappling with the pressure to chase after him into adulthood, to compete for his attention. They would never again have those days of playing together in the woods. He’d made his peace with that. Yet inside of him, the size of a seed of grass, still lived that childish desire to have his big brother all to himself, as close as trees twinned at the roots, the way they used to be.

He brought an arrow up once again and focused his aim, waiting for the wind to calm before letting it fly. Around him, the flaxen grass rippled like waves, his long bangs whipped in front of his eyes. The shot was even more askew this time.

A tengu’s retribution… Sasuke had said such a thing to Itachi several nights ago. It slipped out of him as he felt sleep begin to take over, as if another version of himself had spoken through his lips, that wiser self that lives in dreams. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more those old stories made sense to him and took shape into reality.

Their ancestor, Madara Uchiha, had betrayed and angered a powerful tengu. And now the clan seemed to be plagued with misfortunes, cursed.

Maybe that could explain the tragic nature of his life so far, though that reasoning made such tragedies no easier for him to accept; the first part was supposedly folklore, but the latter part was certainly true. Maybe his own personal curse was to be left behind always, like he felt himself being ignored and set aside now. He was always destined to stand in his older brother’s shadow, as the second son. Yet somehow Sasuke knew that would be too gentle of a fate on its own, if fate really were to blame. He and Itachi might have been spared and left as the only members left of their family, but some premonition told him the eyes of fate were turning toward them again. As if something were left unfinished.

The old tengu might still be out there somewhere, he thought, imagining a winged giant with wicked eyes and the patience of an immortal. Waiting, remembering…

A sudden sharp sound wrenched Sasuke from his pensiveness, a rustle from the thick of trees nearby. His attention shot toward the source, the rest of his body paralyzed as his grip around the long-bow tightened without lifting it. But it was just a bird taking flight.

o

Itachi sat with his knees slightly drawn in the steaming bathwater, unsure of what to do. Everyone else had retired to bed by now, the lamps blown out and the compound made silvery with moonlight. Only cricket song remained. He slid his back further down, sinking in deeper so that his shoulders were submerged, and let his head fall back against the lip of the wooden tub. Cool night air wafted across his face.

All day, his mind had been teeming with ideas about Danzo’s proposition. How to slip around it without causing offense, how he could twist his situation into a more favorable position, even take advantage of it. But mostly these thoughts wound up circling back to the major conflict at hand, and none really satisfied him.

He’d even thought of asking Hiruzen for advice. In the handful of occasions when he’d had to drop by the Sarutobi estate before, delivering documents or relaying messages, Itachi had always been astonished by the vibrancy of his sprawling residence, how it was everything Danzo’s wasn’t – stone gardens kept immaculate through every season, sounds of children’s voices at play and scents of hydrangea following him down the exterior hallways, always bustling with servants going this way and that. Somehow the scenery and sounds drew up a sense of nostalgia for his own childhood home, even though in so many ways they were so different. Itachi had made it to the walls of the compound before regaining himself and turning back.

He knew going to Hiruzen—the very person who was sending him away eventually—would be futile, anyways. An unspoken agreement lingered from the meeting that he was not to be involved. It would seem too much like he was hiding behind his old benefactor, a child tattling to a parent. If he were to be a samurai again, he’d have to be a man first.

What Danzo’s true purpose in extending such an offer to him was, he still wasn’t certain, but he wasn’t without his intuition on the matter, either. It was clear he had never liked Itachi; Itachi had never cared for Danzo’s strange, hostile sort of attention, either. He’d sensed that envy in the old man’s single sharp eye for something he did not possess all these years, that hawkish stare that had followed him since he was young like a warning, threatening to swallow him up. If he allowed Danzo to ‘possess’ him as a retainer on a task force now, would he be resigning himself wholly? 

‘_Just because their servants eat well, that doesn’t make them any less of servants_.’

But at least he’d be a servant here, rather than faraway, he couldn’t help but see Danzo’s point reluctantly.

Itachi breathed out a sigh.

The water had grown too tepid to steam anymore. As the remainder continued to thin and dissipate, his body became a visible shape distorted through the surface. Slender, yet sturdy, with planes of skin the color of river sand, a shade or two darker than his brother’s. He looked down toward himself at this body, imagining for a moment that it was something odd and foreign, not really his own. But it was the same body that housed a heart pumping blood through his network of veins, blood that was tugging at him more frequently with an uncharacteristic heatedness, that pooled down into the depths of his belly and hardened and softened, as if conspiring against his mind with its own monstrous desires; the same body that flared with goosebumps across his flesh as if something invisible hung in the air.

The strange lute singer from a week ago still drifted into his thoughts every now and then, as well as the terrible dream that small encounter had left him with. It had been years since a nightmare shook him so badly. What could it mean, he wondered; how could one moment cause him to behave so drastically? Itachi decided it must have been one of those occurrences where the mind in distress latches onto trivial things and magnifies them irrationally. With everything else weighing on him, he felt it better to tuck it away and not let such wonderings consume him. He hadn’t seen the lute player near the temple—or anywhere—since then. He hadn’t dreamt of the young man again, either. Only in daymares of his own indulgent introspection did the other continue to live inside him. Especially that gaze, those smiling eyes as placid as the moon.

He decided to rise from the bath then, the water colder by the minute and his palms severely pruned. As Itachi dried himself, distant notes of a flute drifted into his ears.

He followed the sound outside and away from the cluster of buildings, past the long halls already pitch-dark, his loose hair and white under-robes flowing in the gentle wind. He knew fully well who the player was.

“Sasuke,” Itachi called up to him good-naturedly. “What are you still doing up?”

He found his brother settled on a high branch of one of the lone paulownia trees scattered outside the training hall, one knee drawn up while the other leg dangled over the side. He’d been lost in thought apparently, his song ceasing abruptly at the sound of his name like a spooked animal. Sasuke brought his wooden flute away from his lips and peered down through gaps in the broad leaves. 

“Big Brother? I didn’t realize you were back.”

Itachi greeted him with a conversational gleam in his eyes. “The wind must feel even nicer up there. Makes it a good night for playing old songs, huh?”

“It helps me remember things,” Sasuke said. “You could come up and join me.”

“I’m a little old for that,” he replied mirthfully. “Why don’t you come on down, so I don’t end up waking the whole compound yelling up at you.”

“He’s a bit upset with me, for having to take off and miss our training earlier,” a calm voice from the nearby shadows said.

Kakashi stood to the side, arms folded and chin tilted up to observe Sasuke while he’d sulked with his mournful tune. His silver hair and pale skin shone above the mask that hugged his face below the eyes and trailed down his throat under his kimono, the fabric dark in contrast. He still wore his daytime overcoat and hakama.

“He’s probably mad at me, too, since I haven’t been able to make as much time for him,” Itachi admitted.

Kakashi nodded, contemplative. “Well, Sasuke’s at that age where boys are more of a handful. Too much energy and stubbornness contained in the growing body. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“I was pretty stubborn at his age, as well.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘was’ in your case,” Kakashi remarked, and it caused Itachi’s lips to quirk into a genuine smile for a moment.

“Hey. Both of you. Don’t gossip about me like I can’t hear you.” Sasuke dropped onto the grass with a soft thud, landing on his feet with the grace of a bird finding its perch. He straightened himself, and his eyes darted between his brother and his master. All too late did he realize he was within his older brother’s reach, who wasted no time in burying fingers in his hair with an affectionate tousle.

“Sorry, Sasuke,” Itachi half-laughed.

Sasuke shot him a look of betrayal, as if to demand why he’d do such a thing in front of Kakashi. Cheeks burning a rosier shade in the dimness, he caught the other’s wrist and held it tight. “Let’s just go already, Big Brother!”

He started to tug Itachi in the direction of their room, but Itachi freed himself gently. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Kakashi had begun to turn and leave them, only for Itachi to call his name. Sasuke was already walking off in the distance, peeking over his shoulder at them. With Kakashi alone, Itachi’s eyes bore into his, his laidback expression shed away.

“I wanted to thank you for looking after Sasuke,” he began softly. “And to ask that you continue doing so diligently. I know my younger brother can be a handful, just as you said yourself. I know you’re a busy man. But please, will you spend more time with him?”

Under the younger man’s somber stare, Kakashi softened. “I will,” he promised.

An invisible tension seemed to lift from Itachi as he exhaled. But another weight soon took its place. “I wish I could be around to do more for Sasuke myself. But I’m glad I can trust you to watch over him. He needs guidance now more than ever, I feel.”

“You sound like a worried parent more than an older brother a lot of the time, you know.” Kakashi slipped his attention away from Itachi’s gaze and directed it out past him, toward the distant stars. “Which is fine and noble and all. But make sure to spend some time worrying about yourself occasionally, too.”

Itachi nodded toward the ground, pensive.

Kakashi glanced at him from the corner of his eye, his tone still casual. “Any particular reason why you’re asking me to be extra mindful of Sasuke now?”

“I’m just being overly cautious, I suppose,” Itachi responded after a moment. “If anything were to happen to me, I would want you to treat Sasuke like your own little brother. This dojo has been his home for half his life now.”

“As well as yours,” Kakashi pointed out. He turned to meet Itachi’s eyes again. “I may not know exactly what’s going on with you, and I’m not asking for the details if you’d rather keep them to yourself. But I don’t mind you coming and going when you want. You’ll always have a place here.”

A beat went by, the right response feeling elusive, insufficient. “Thank you,” Itachi said.

Quiet fell over them again. Looking out at the night sky again, Kakashi went on. “You’ve heard the story of my father, haven’t you?”

“Lord Sakumo.”

“Everyone who used to know him has told me what a great man he was, what a great fighter and vassal, but it didn’t stop him from getting into hot water with the shogun. He was permitted to kill himself so that the rest of our family wouldn’t be dishonored. I’m supposed to be grateful for his sacrifice; if he hadn’t done it, I would have inherited none of this.” His gaze extended far away, trailing over the sort of distance that traveled time. “Yet how often since childhood have I wished he would have chosen to live. Even if it meant living in dishonor.”

Itachi watched him sympathetically.

“You and Sasuke remind me of myself in different ways. I’ll do what I can for you but ultimately, I’m not the one he really needs sticking around. Remember that.”

Sasuke was sitting cross-legged near the doorway when Itachi drew the screen open. A small lamp was burning near the center of the room, its glow visible from outside, casting long shadows around the walls.

“What were you talking to Kakashi about?”

“Just wanted to hear more about your progress.” Itachi strode to the corner of the room where the low desk had been left. “What do you say, Sasuke, up for a few games of shogi tonight?”

“Really?” Sasuke stared, wide-eyed and cautiously hopeful. “Are you sure it’s not too late?”

“Staying up late for one night won’t hurt,” Itachi said with a mischievous smile tossed over his shoulder. “Is that alright with you?”

“Of course!”

“Go get the pieces. I have to compose a letter quickly and then we can set up the board.”

While Sasuke retrieved the wooden box at his back, the stones jangling within, Itachi took out his parchment and brush, wet the inkstone with a few drops of water. On the page, before his resolve could waver, he wrote the message:

_I accept._

o

If the palm of a hand could sing, his right hand would be making music. Only the tune would be a melancholy one, a chance reunion in a foreign land and not a victorious homecoming.

Not the feel of a wooden bokken nor a bamboo pole used in practice fighting could ever match the weight of the polished steel sword he held in his grip. The way it sliced through the air, halved leaf after falling leaf mid-descent. He was conscious of this new weight, the katana-wakizashi duet, settled at his hip as he walked. The sleek wood of their scabbards and careful ornamentation around each hilt.

“With these symbols of your newly restored rank, I grant you all the privileges a yoriki holds under my direction,” came Danzo’s low decree. He walked before Itachi down the narrow corridor of the administration building, cane in hand and accompanied by a single retainer a respectable step behind at his right. “But as you already know, this is more a trial run to see how well you fare. You must show proof of your effectiveness in this position so that others can determine if the fit is a good one.”

“Understood,” Itachi responded quietly.

They rounded the corner and followed the hall until they came upon a small, private courtyard. Enclosed within the broader structure of the building, only scant light filtered into the space. Somehow, in all the years he spent writing and ferrying messages for the machi-bugyō, Itachi never knew of this courtyard. It might have once been designated for meditative or ceremonial purposes, but now held a plain, rather unused feel.

Danzo turned to face him, sparing a glance to his retainer, who nodded a bow and disappeared further down the hall without another word, leaving the two of them alone.

“You had me almost concerned when night fell and I still hadn’t heard word from you, Itachi. I wonder if you were testing my lenience.”

“Not at all. Next time, I swear I’ll be more careful not to make Lord Danzo wait.”

With a light nod, Danzo replied, “Well, let it be water under the bridge this time. From now on, you will answer directly to me.”

Itachi nodded in return.

“As for the matter of how you will prove yourself, so to say, I have a task of great importance. Are you familiar with one of my retainers named Sugaru?”

_Sugaru? _Itachi was puzzled for a moment by what seemed like a sudden tangent. The image of that silent, stoic figure who often stood at Danzo’s side like a shadow came to mind, always clad in black and hiding most of his face like his master. “We’ve never spoken, but I know of him.”

“His true name is Shōji, of the Aburame samurai clan. ‘Sugaru’ is the name I assigned him when he first entered my service, so as to make it easier for him to infiltrate commoners while working for me,” he explained. “Several nights ago, I sent him to investigate a suspicious person, only for him to never report back.”

“You believe he was captured.”

“Correct. My task for you, then, is to continue his investigation. Retrace Sugaru’s movements from that night and locate his whereabouts. You are to apprehend the perpetrator alive.”

Before Itachi could formally reply, they were interrupted by the retainer from before. Behind him, leashed with a rope around the wrists, he led a wobbling figure down the corridor. Unable to see, with a coarse hood pulled over his head, the figure moved slowly, until they came to the drop off of the veranda and the retainer pulled the hood off, allowing him to step down carefully. Itachi held back a wince at the sight of the man’s face, purple with recent bruises.

“Everything I tell you here today is of the utmost secrecy,” Danzo continued, unfazed. “If my suspicions about this person’s true identity are correct, it may be a matter of public safety. In which case we will have to go about the situation cautiously, not to alert the public or the villain responsible.”

The prisoner, thin and limping, was forced to his knees in the space between Itachi and Danzo. All at once, the realization flooded Itachi, why Danzo showed no concern at speaking so nonchalantly with the man present. His stomach dropped.

“But before that, what better opportunity to test your new sword than to carry out this first task.” He looked on the prisoner finally, that air of a death god, lord of the underworld, brandished in his austere tone. “This man, in attempting to get revenge against a neighbor for an old dispute, set fire to that neighbor’s personal storehouse. For the crime of arson, he is to be put to death by beheading.”

A spinning, dissociative ache bled into Itachi’s brain, at what he was being asked to do—what he had no choice but to do. He gazed down at the condemned man, whose own eyes were lowered despondently to the ground, expression hollow.

“To execute someone here, instead of the designated grounds, would risk polluting the entire building with death, would it not?” He attempted to reason.

“He’s an arsonist; it’s nothing less than an act of justice to rid him from the public. His death will be a blessing before it’s seen as a curse.”

That corner-trapped feeling engulfed him once again. His katana gave a hiss as he unsheathed it, the blade glittering in the meager light. The man was trembling lightly now, though his jaw remained tightly set, determined to still himself. Itachi moved as if someone else controlled his arms, raising the blade high over his head, setting his aim on the area of the exposed neck that promised the least pain, the swiftest and cleanest cut. His grip tightened. _Forgive me_, Itachi prayed to the nameless man, and let the blade fall—

Two perfect halves of a single maple leaf fell away, drifting down as if they’d decided to split apart on their own. He slashed his sword fluidly through the air, slicing two leaves with a single stroke this time.

When he was young, Itachi had made a game of it. He’d try to teach Sasuke to do the same, using sticks so they wouldn’t hurt themselves, and swat the leaves this way and that in the air, testing themselves to find every perfect center.

It almost amazed him how easy it was now to slice each one, their fragility before the sharp edge. How effortlessly the muscle memory returned. Standing in the shade of trees, the leaves continued slowly falling, unbothered at the way he went on cutting at them distractedly.

Danzo’s retainer—Shu, Danzo had revealed his name to be—spoke at him at length all the while. They were supposed to be laying out their tactical approach together, discussing where and how they’d begin their search. Yet mainly he repeated Danzo’s words Itachi had already heard earlier, regarding Shu’s ability to assist him on the investigation, his theory that whoever targeted Sugaru was likely really after Lord Danzo himself. Meanwhile the dead man’s blood had soaked into the ground.

“Are you still listening?”

“Yeah.”

Itachi went on focusing his half-attention on another leaf floating down, not bothering to look at the retainer. He felt Shu observe him as he parted this last one with his sword flying at an uppercut motion, swift as the blink of an eye.

“That’s a neat trick,” Shu remarked. His tone carried a sardonic trace beneath its honeyed, overly conversational exterior. It reminded Itachi unpleasantly of Genma. “I think you’ll find that I have rather impressive skills, as well, the more we work together.”

_If that’s so, then why don’t you find Sugaru on your own and leave me out of it?_ Itachi didn’t say.

If anything, his skillset might have relied on appearing impressively ordinary. Plain-faced and of average height, Shu seemed to be a man far from old but not particularly young. Nothing in his outward features were likely to reach out at any passerby's attention, nothing caught the eye in a crowd. Before they parted ways then (Shu perhaps finally cutting his losses at trying to break through Itachi’s aloof and irritable mood), Itachi committed the other man’s face to memory.

Once he was alone at last, half wandering, he trudged to the closest public bathhouse. Stripped his kimono from his shoulders with a detached, weary sense of his surroundings. Undid his sash and undergarments, set his twin swords gingerly by his clothing. All day he’d barely felt like himself, with his formal clothes, hair oiled and combed into a glossy topknot. Itachi scrubbed his skin thoroughly, rinsed with cold water then scrubbed himself again, until it left his limbs glowing red from the broken blood vessels under the surface. He sat stewing in the hot water for a long time, hoping once he was done the impurity of death would cease hanging around him.

No matter where he tried to direct his listless thoughts, they kept returning to that man’s resigned, helpless face, the sound of his head falling forward to the ground. It was for the best that he bathed here and not the dojo baths. The thought of facing Sasuke now only deepened his shame, soured his stomach.

To his left and right, other men slipped into the water and got out, waded around him and conversed with one another, the steam wrapped around them all until they were a blanket of voices and liquid sounds. Among the sea of ambiguous faces in the mist, Itachi thought of the lute player. All at once he became convinced of the possibility that they were bathing in the same water without even realizing it, that once and for all he could seize the opportunity to wade over and confront him. As though if Itachi concentrated in-between the forest of bodies before him hard enough, the lute player would appear on the other side, summoned by his imagination.

When Itachi was dressed, he made his way toward the Hatake compound, for what would likely be his last night there. In the morning, he’d have to transfer his belongings to the yoriki barracks within the city. Sasuke could keep most of his things, his books and much of his calligraphy supplies, most of his robes that Sasuke would grow into with time (not that Itachi owned all that many to hand down, anyways). For safekeeping, not as a farewell gift, he thought.

People passing by offered Itachi more distance than usual, eyeing his swords. Before long, he came to the temple with its wide ginkgo tree, golden light slanting through the boughs. He slowed to pause at its steps, suddenly drawn to the idea of praying. Perhaps it was the dead man still weighing on him, perhaps, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to ask the universe for a few seeds of luck in his investigation.

He’d never been particularly religious. Yet whatever the reason, Itachi began to ascend the stairs. At the top, however, before he’d even had time to wash his feet and enter, he halted—a whiff of something acrid hitting his nose, the memory of burning crashing onto him.

“Look what you’ve done,” a voice chided.

Itachi’s eyes darted to the source.

An old monk was patting at one of the acolytes’ arms, his scolding giving way to good-natured laughter after a moment as the acolyte turned red. One of the young boy’s sleeves was lightly singed, having apparently been clumsy while lighting some joss sticks.

The scent of smoke evaporated away. Despite himself, Itachi turned and left at once. 

o

A body was found headless in the Sumida River. Bloated and naked, the skin tinted a sickly greenish-blue pallor all over, like the underbelly of a catfish.

It was a young peasant woman who made the discovery one morning, kneeling along the bank in the half-light to fetch water and wash her hair. Crouching doubled over at the water’s edge, she spotted the long figure snagged among the reeds nearby. At first nothing more than a blemish out of the corner of her eye, something aquatic and alien. Only once she drew closer, beckoned by curiosity, did her horrified scream pierce the air: there, swaying gently in the current, bobbing occasionally up to graze the surface, was the undeniable form of a man, one leg tangled in the coarse patch of river grass, the arms stiffly relaxed at its side. Below the neck where a clean cut had separated the body from its missing head, traces of an old scar could still be faintly made out. A tell-tale jagged white lightning streak above the vocal cords, forever silenced.

The moment Danzo’s spy met him on the veranda to relay the news, Itachi inferred at once that the corpse was Sugaru’s.

o

_O autumn winds,_

_ Tell me where I’m bound, to which_

_Particular hell. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Opening section heavily inspired by a passage from When Fox Is a Thousand by Larissa Lai  
\- End poem by Kobayashi Issa  
\- Bishamonten = one of the Seven Gods of Fortune, associated with warriors, authority, & dignity  
\- yoriki = Edo police force comprised of samurai &/or higher-class social group members; they worked directly below the machi-bugyo and led patrols of doshin (lower-class samurai police)
> 
> Wow I’ve taken an extremely long hiatus in updating this thing.  
Sorry for the lack of a certain fluffy-haired singer, but he’ll get plenty of spotlight in the next chapter :3c  
And again, I’m deeply sorry for my slowness in adding more to this story. I haven’t stopped thinking about it for a day, yet many things have happened in the last year that have kept me away, regarding my home/work conditions and issues related to my mental & physical health. I don’t know what the near future holds for me, but I really hope that whoever happens upon this story so far, fragmented and incomplete yet as it is, you’ll find it a pleasurable read :p  
Thank you so very much for all the patience and insanely thoughtful comments so far, they really do a lot for encouragement and motivation!! I’m awkward about replying but I truly appreciate the feedback and also if you’ve ever said anything nice about my stories please know I would die for you T T


	4. Fallen Words

_You are plum blossoms on the water,  
Petals floating by till they pass out of sight._

_I am a willow growing by the stream.  
My shadow is sunk in it, and I cannot follow._

\- Buson, “Song of the Yoda River”

A drizzle grayed the air, the sky shaded a pearly overcast by the promise of more rain. The moisture in the atmosphere caught on his eyelashes and caused his hair to frizz slightly, having neglected to oil it. He wasn’t due to appear before any officials or meet with other yoriki today; Itachi had taken it upon himself to return to the river on his own.

He walked on, dressed in his usual indigo robes and hair tied back simply in a long ponytail, letting the curve of the bank and his own thoughts carry him along the river’s edge while traveling against the flow of its roiling, meandering path. Past the docks and residences lined along the Sumida. Away from the hum of city life to the stretches of river where the woods gently closed in, branches leaning out to hang over the gurgling waters, the slick grass pliant under his sandals.

If Sugaru’s body had been discarded somewhere upstream, it only made sense that the killer would have chosen a site where they’d be shielded from wandering eyes of commoners or officers on patrol. Itachi raked his gaze along the ground where he stepped, keeping alert for any hints of abnormality, signs of drag marks in the loam. Meanwhile the other half of his attention spaced away into reflection; then again, went his stream of thinking, one strong enough to overpower a spy and assassin of Sugaru’s caliber likely needn’t drag the body when dumping it.

But how did they transport the corpse from the initial crime scene to the river without being noticed or seeming out of the ordinary? What disguise had they used?

Itachi held in a sigh, feeling he’d been sighing too much lately as it was. This was perhaps the most pressing factor at the base of his mission—that the killer he was tasked to find was not just physically skilled, but also probably quite clever. 

He tried to imagine himself in the killer’s headspace, feeling out what he would be doing now: whoever he was, would he hide himself away, or would he strike again, before he could be attacked and captured? The latter held some weight, Itachi thought; the killer had already taken out one of Danzo’s best retainers. They would of course be aware that more of Danzo’s men would be sent after them for this transgression. And now, Itachi numbered among them. In his mind’s eye, Itachi saw himself facing the faceless adversary, confronting them the way Sugaru had to have. The muscles in his sword-hand tensed in anticipation.

Just as Itachi felt himself move into that calm, icy state of focus that coursed through him whenever it came to combat, something in the river caused his concentration to falter and evaporate away. He stopped dead at the sight of a figure standing near the bank, wading navel-deep and as bare as the water itself, turning to look up at him in just as much quiet startlement. Itachi felt his lips part to take in a silent gasp.

The lute singer stared back at him, matching his stillness.

Neither of them spoke. Amid the sibilant whisper of drizzle that seemed to thicken in Itachi’s ears, a fleeting thought wondered if he’d slipped into a dream or hallucination. The droplets around Itachi’s lashes crowded and made his vision blurry until he blinked them away. Yet as the moment passed, centering him in his conscious body, the spell of that forest spirit, the nightmarish phantom that had gripped Itachi from before, seemed to have dissembled and fallen away now, shed along with his clothes that were hanging from a branch near the water's edge to dry. Before Itachi stood an ordinary man in the water, his naked skin prickled with cold. Dead leaves flowing half-heartedly around him, carried by the current while he held Itachi’s gaze with his own steadily expressionless, almost bated. 

Itachi found his voice back from somewhere faraway, its tone a stranger to him.

"Isn’t it a little cold to be bathing in the river this time of year?"

A crooked smile broke out across the young man’s face in reply, and with that the air between them softened a degree. "It's not so bad. Not when bathhouses cost money and you haven't got much to spare, that is."

"I suppose you didn't hear, then—this river is tainted with death. A body was just pulled from it a few days ago."

"I did hear some murmurings about that, here and there. I thought it was discovered further downstream." He cupped some water up to his shoulder with one hand, going on with his bathing likely before a shiver could settle into his bones in the chilly air. "On the bright side, at least no one steps into the same river twice."

"Even so, you should probably finish and be on your way soon," said Itachi.

The man gave a light nod, understanding it was firmer than a suggestion. He brought water up to his face with both palms curved bowl-like together and smoothed it over his brow, his cheeks, letting it trickle down.

Watching him, Itachi spoke up again before he could think against it.

"What sort of 'murmurings' have you heard?"

"Are you an inspector on the case?" He peered up from the rim of his cupped hands, the hair over his forehead dripping.

As the other man subtly glanced him up and down, the pair of swords at his sash seemed to lean into his hip. "Something like that," Itachi half-answered.

"Ah. Well, mostly I’ve heard that whoever that man was, he was noble-born. But then, that’s a given."

"How do you figure that?"

The lute singer questioned him with a look, brow cocked and lips quirked up with light incredulity. "The fact that there’s an investigation, for starters; the authorities wouldn't be making such a fuss about this sort of thing unless it involved someone very important."

"Is it not the duty of government officials to make sure that if foul play were involved, the killer be brought to justice?"

"I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, since you would know better. But the more popular theory around here doesn't really involve homicide."

"What happened, then, according to this theory?"

His voice lowered slightly. "Well—and this is just what some townspeople are whispering—there are rumors circulating that the death was actually a suicide. A lovers’ suicide. It would explain why the nobleman’s identity hasn’t been released, if he was having a secret affair with an assumedly lower-class woman. In which case the other member of the pair, the woman, will likely turn up at some point, if her poor body didn't get snagged somewhere."

"A woman…?” It was Itachi’s turn to look incredulous. “What evidence is there that a woman was involved in the first place?"

"Sorry, sorry." He showed Itachi his palms sheepishly. "I'm just repeating the things I've heard. Though, I probably shouldn't be filling up your head with rumors and town gossip when you could be getting your facts elsewhere. I have to admit, I haven't lived in Edo long enough to figure out its tall-tales."

"It's fine. I'm the one who asked in the first place." He willed the crease to smooth away from in-between his brows.

"Maybe it’s just fantasy. But you have to admit, it makes for a good story, doesn't it? A nobleman and a pleasure woman locked into a doomed romance, choosing to die together. It has that tragic appeal all the popular plays have. It's no wonder people want to believe in it. " He looked out then, up toward the river's length, contemplative. "Then again, stories do tend to start somewhere. Did you know, Yoshiwara is a little ways upstream from here? Things like this happen every now and then, so it's not like it's unheard of or anything."

"Is that where you've been hearing this version of events? Assuming you've visited there since the incident."

"Not in the way you're probably imagining. I'm a performer. That's how I earn my living, though some might not consider it that much."

Unable to resist, the words slipped out of Itachi. "You were playing a lute the first time I saw you. Near a temple."

"Yeah.” His gaze returned to Itachi’s, the lighthearted glint back in his expression, as though the incident were a fond memory. “I remember seeing you, too."

Itachi felt himself begin to sink into that stare, that was meaningful in a way he couldn’t quite decipher.

"So if you were in my position, Yoshiwara would be the place to investigate first."

"For what my insight’s worth."

"Right. I'll take my leave and disturb you no further, then."

He began for the direction he’d come, deciding to put off further combing of the river area for now. In the grass, a trail from his footsteps still lingered, the shallow impressions in muddier areas beginning to turn into little pools. He only covered a few steps before halting once more.

"One more thing."

The man turned again, meeting his eyes intently.

"In case I need to find you again, if I have more questions," Itachi went on, "will you tell me your name?"

He thought he detected a hint of that odd smile from the first time their glances caught.

“It’s Shisui.”

o

Shisui was nowhere to be found.

His mother searched for him in the woods outside the nearby village, in the grassy field where fawns lay hidden waiting for their own mothers to return. She asked the women who lived in huts on the outskirts of town if he’d gone to play with their children, if they’d seen him wander off with anyone or even taken, but to no avail.

Another day went by. And night fell.

On the third day, just as despair and grief threatened to consume her entirely, he appeared at dawn on the threshold of the abandoned temple where they stayed, a thin silhouette in the doorway.

Shisui frowned as his mother rushed to him with frantic and disbelieving hands, stilled by the tearful, stricken look in her eyes. He couldn’t tell at first if she would embrace him tightly or shake him for disappearing without a trace. The guilt was enough to make him forget his hunger from the journey.

“Where have you been?” she demanded when she could finally speak.

“I saw a battle. A real samurai battle,” Shisui attempted to explain, his feeble voice betraying almost wonder. “There was this boy…”

“A battle?” She searched his face for answers. “And what boy? You don’t mean a samurai’s child, do you? What were you doing there?”

“He was in trouble. I found a sword and saved him. I had to.”

His mother’s gaze held him firmly for a long moment, her shock from before hardening into something like disappointment. Not quite anger, but sour on the tongue. He tried to meet this unfamiliar expression with his own stare, certain he had done the right thing in the heat of the moment. That surely the good of his deed outweighed the bad and all would be forgiven. Nonetheless, he carefully neglected to mention the boy had been an Uchiha.

Her voice came out in a low, austere tone, almost a murmur. “You must _never_ touch a warrior’s sword. Not when someone could see you, and certainly not when they’ve done terrible things to boys like you for lighter offenses. Do you understand what could have happened?”

Shisui nodded wordlessly, his young expression pale and somber.

His mother’s grip on his shoulders slackened at last, relief pooling in her eyes. All the tension in her bones fled like someone had cut a thread inside of her. “You have to be more careful, Shisui. Please, remember what I told you about warriors. They’re not all heroic or noble, like in stories.”

“But you told me about good ones, too.”

“Yes.” She embraced him finally, pulling him close with weary arms to rest her cheek in his hair. “But if you’re too trusting of people, that can be dangerous. I just can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”

“I know,” Shisui mumbled into his mother’s shoulder. Against her warmth, his own fatigue was welling up again. But he remembered the pain in her expression when he first stepped through the door, and felt a pang of shame drop from his chest into his stomach again. He patted her arm lightly, the only small gesture of comfort he knew to show grown-ups.

“I’m alright now, Mom. The moon was bright. It helped me find my way back.”

o

The slant of evening sun through the trees hued the air an eerie red, the scarlet maple leaves glowing as if set on fire. Perhaps it was fitting, given the district he was crossing into as Itachi stepped off from the bridge that marked the threshold between Yoshiwara and the rest of the world.

The whole sky seemed set ablaze with that otherworldly shade, sinking into every surface. Red lanterns along the bridge and at posts marking the barrier reflected below on the Sumida River’s wobbly surface, upon which it showed people making their way toward the pleasure city’s outer gates in a steady stream, smearing together along the water into a trail of blurry, indistinct faces.

Perhaps it was simply the unfamiliarity of his surroundings that caused him to feel as if he had fallen headfirst into a painting, everything still oil-wet from the morning rain and infused with an ineffable dreaminess. If Edo was the ‘floating world,’ then Yoshiwara was the floating world within, both idle and charged with an uninhibitedness foreign to the market centers and governmental districts Itachi was accustomed to traveling. Even the air commanded a presence uniquely its own, perfumed and pulsating with anticipation for the coming night. The kind of air that peeled away restraint, laughter spilling out of doorways here and there. And then there were other sounds, also unfamiliar to Itachi’s ears – a symphony of women’s voices, honeyed and bell-like, the tap of wooden geta shoes like leaves clattering along the ground and the heavy silk-rustle of layered robes moving along the skin of warm bodies.

Itachi found himself unable to do much more than drift along the different streets as the evening wore on, absorbing all of these things with his senses heightened yet too reluctant to probe further into any of the buildings he passed.

Before the red glow had entirely melted away into darkness, paper lanterns were lit everywhere, glittering kaleidoscopic on the canal waters at the district’s edge. The pleasure town bloomed into a festival scene before his eyes.

Having wandered deeper into the center of Yoshiwara, Itachi found a corner where he could observe the sights and people going by him with a skewer of dango in one hand. Several men who’d passed him wore hats and hoods to hide their faces; despite being without his crest or swords, Itachi wondered if perhaps he appeared more conspicuous than he thought, his head bare as those ambling along without a care as to who recognized them. Yet even so, he found himself completely unnoticed, no one eyeing him reproachfully or offering him generous leeway when walking near him, the way people normally treated him. The invisibility felt like a relief, he mused to himself as he slid the last little orb of mochi off the stick with his teeth.

Yet he was getting nowhere in finding anything that would point to Sugaru. Yoshiwara was bigger than Itachi had envisioned it to be, an overwhelming mass of shops and theaters and food stalls rather than only brothels. Who knew how long it would take to scour its entirety...

He was watching shadows move behind the lit screens of an upstairs floor when a pair of small hands suddenly appeared at his bicep. Itachi’s attention flew downward toward the source with his usual stoicism, finding at his elbow a young girl who looked to be around Sasuke’s age, peering up at him sweetly.

“Hey there,” the girl said, bright and conversational, and still latched to him. “You’re a new face. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

For a moment he could only frown at her, too accustomed to being considered unapproachable for most people and still wondering whether she’d mistaken him for someone else as he took in the sight of her: despite not yet being a teen, the girl’s light-colored hair was pinned up ornately as a woman’s, set atop with a comb shaped like a lotus in mother-of-pearl that complemented the floral pattern on her lavender kimono and plum obi. Her painted lips and shaded eyelids made her appear more doll-like than mature, however.

“I’m not sure. This area isn’t familiar to me.”

“You do seem kinda lost,” she agreed good-naturedly. Her smile stretched into a conspiratorial sort of grin, then, which she hid daintily behind a long sleeve. “But luckily I know the perfect place where you should go. You’re a samurai, aren’t you? I can tell. The White Chrysanthemum is the hidden gem of Yoshiwara. Come with me”—she began to tug him gently, for another building farther down the street—“I’ll take you there and look after you.”

With nowhere else to go and without any true lead to pull him in another direction, Itachi let himself be led wordlessly by this energetic girl. If anyone considered it strange for an overly friendly twelve-year-old to be pulling him by his arm toward an unseen destination, they didn’t say a thing.

The White Chrysanthemum, as the girl had called it, was a teahouse settled between a smaller restaurant and a bathhouse, made of black wood and designed with an elegant entrance, an image of the titular flower painted above its sign. She brought him through the wide entryway, kneeling to arrange his sandals for him as he stepped up to the polished floor, then ushered him into the main area, a broad theater-esque hall with tables spaced out.

As the girl seated herself across from him at one of these low tables, already set with a small tray of wagashi and utensils for making tea, Itachi took note of the stage at the end of the room, a raised area with a painted screen of an elaborate ginkgo tree serving as background, its leaves colored seasonal gold. Likely used for dances that women would put on.

“I’m Ino Yamanaka, by the way—you can call me O-Ino. What’s your name?”

Itachi offered a polite smile, brows knitting the way they sometimes did with Sasuke. “It probably wouldn’t be wise for me to give away my name around here, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright. Plenty of guests like to be extra careful with their identities. In that case, I’ll just call you ‘Mister Samurai.’ If that’s fine with you, of course.”

Before Itachi could reply, she went on, more to herself, “Oh, I’m being rude, I haven’t offered you any tea or snacks, yet.”

As Ino set herself to work, dropping scoops of powder into a bowl and whisking deftly as she poured in the stream of boiling water from a pot, Itachi felt his stoicism begin to thaw. She really did remind him of Sasuke in a small way, so ambitiously adult-like for a child, both precocious in their own endearing ways.

He let his gaze travel, finding the corridor leading to private tearooms, the staircase nearby that likely led up to bedchambers where men could go with the serving girl of their choice. In the tables around him, groups of people at each chatted easily, giving away into the relaxed ambience of the place.

Itachi imitated them, leaning forward slightly to blend in with the laidback atmosphere.

“You mentioned right away earlier that you’ve never seen me here before. Does that mean you’ve memorized all of this teahouse’s patrons?”

“Well, most of the patrons _here_ are regulars, since you only get in if you’re invited. But I get sent on errands in town all the time. I’m good at picking out which people are used to being here and which aren’t.”

“In that case," he veered fluidly, "have you happened to see a certain man around here with a scar across his neck, one that runs close to the base of his throat over his vocal cords?”

Her smile faded as she turned thoughtful, and also likely put off slightly by such a bewildering change of subject. Her whisking slowed. “A man with a scar over his throat? No, not that I can recall…Why do you ask?”

“I’ve heard some interesting rumors regarding what may have happened to this man. I had to see for myself how much truth there is to the things being said.”

“Like ghost stories, you mean?” Ino let her own amusement show. “We have plenty of those. Lots of places in Yoshiwara have their own local legends about being haunted.”

“Along that vein, I suppose. But you haven’t noticed, or heard, of any suspicious people in the area lately?”

“Actually, I did see something a little strange recently. It must have been more than a week ago now. There was a man walking by himself late at night, around the time I was blowing out the lanterns, which felt weird because the gate at the bridge had to have already been shut at that hour. But he was wearing a hooded mask that covered his neck, so it’s impossible for me to say if he had any scars or anything like that.”

“Did it appear he was following anyone, or being followed?”

“I don’t remember.” She set the whisk down with that, holding the steaming cup to him with both hands. “Anyways, let’s talk about something more cheerful. You don’t want to make your tea taste bad by thinking of stressful things while you drink. You’re supposed to clear your mind and focus on the flavor.”

He obeyed, holding the cup to his lips and first breathing in the aromatic scent. The tea tasted richer than any he could remember having.

“Oh, look!” Ino pulled him from his savoring, scooting around to sit close to him at his side. “The entertainment is going to start.”

A duet of shamisen had started playing, a simple song floating over the soft chatter of the teahouse, the talking dwindling into quiet in response. Itachi took another swallow of his tea as he followed Ino’s attention to the stage, his throat going dry immediately after.

_That’s…_

The man taking the stage from its side entrance had to have been Shisui, yet he appeared nothing like Itachi had seen him. Gone was his mossy robe, replaced by a more sophisticated shade of ocher over which he wore a chestnut brown haori. His short, curly hair was drawn back and tied with a red cord into a small not-quite ponytail. It struck Itachi that by conventional standards he was not unattractive, his skin smooth and black hair glossy and full. He wore an easy, charming aura, his eyes intelligent and expression friendly. As the shamisen drew out the final note of their song, Shisui knelt onto the pillow set out for him, facing the teahouse guests who greeted him with clapping, as if they’d seen him before. His lap was bare of his lute.

"Thank you. My name is Shisui, and it's my honor to entertain you all this evening." He bowed forward, touching his forehead reverently to the polished wood of the stage. Then rose, casting a smiling glance along the audience, from one corner to the opposite. "The girls here are skilled at making you feel welcome, aren't they? I hope my own form of entertainment for the night won't pale too much in comparison."

This drew a rumble of soft, rosy-cheeked laughs from some of the men and a few women. Shisui unfastened his haori and freed his arms, letting the overcoat slide down his back and pool around him.

"I think I see even more faces this evening than the last time. Which suits the occasion, if you ask me. One shouldn't feel so lonely on nights like this, during the season of long nights when the wind seeps between the shoji screens with its _vrr-vrr_ sound that tickles the ear, and makes one almost imagine they're hearing voices from another world. Are the voices that come to you in the night angry? Are they sad?"

The room had fallen completely silent, as if a spell had been cast. The stillness made Itachi remember being transfixed by Shisui that day by the temple, that same mesmerizing sensation seeping into him now. He realized Shisui’s voice had grown softer, as well, each member of his audience leaning forward with attention boring into him, hanging onto his every word.

"The story I will tell as an offering happened some years ago, in the streets of a temple district not unlike Asakusa.

THE BLIND MAN AND THE BEGGAR

This is how every night begins and ends – a solitary traveler trekking across the Togetsukyo Bridge. Amid the temple bells of the Tenryu-ji tolling the hour of the ox in the distance, the steady cadence of a man walking with a cane reverberates across his wooden path.

'Ah, here comes that Akita, making a racket with his cane again. Can't he hire a servant to walk with him instead of rapping along the bridge while some of us are trying to sleep? As if it's not hard enough as it is, going to bed with an empty stomach, nothing but this grass near the riverbank for a pillow. How wretched...'” Here, Shisui's expression lit up with an idea, patting the short side of a fist atop an open palm as he exclaimed, “'But wait now, isn’t this the perfect chance for some honest work! Excuse me, Lord Akita?'”

His eyes stared ahead then, suddenly looking worn beyond his years, somehow small and anxious. “'Who is that calling out to me? Are you of this world or another?'

'It is I, the beggar Seiji. Of this world, last time I checked.'

'Oh, Seiji. Yes, of course. You must forgive me, I cannot see at all. I fear I've woken you, haven't I?'

'Not at all, not at all. I barely heard a thing—I noticed, actually, that Lord Akita might require an extra hand, coming this way and that across the bridge every night as of late. Perhaps I could be hired to accompany Lord Akita? I promise I'm quite useful.'

'Oh no, I mustn't impose this burden on another. Not even my most loyal servant. These nightly journeys must be taken alone, I'm afraid.'

‘Nonsense. For the right pay, I'll take on any burden. No, scratch that—just give me a bite to eat and a warm spot at the foot of your bed to sleep and I'll carry it tenfold.’

'That's very kind of you, dear Seiji, but you really must take heed not to say such things. Even though you beg for alms during the day and live down the slope from the bridge, you are more fortunate than I am. May you never live such a cursed existence as I must.'

'Cursed? Could it be…something to do with why you asked me just now whether I come from this world or some other world?'

'Yes. I'm being haunted terribly.'” There was a smothered sigh behind his lips, the kind that rose up from somewhere ancient in one’s soul. “'I suppose since I have disturbed your slumber as it is, I will tell you the story of how this came to be. If you are still determined to serve me after you have heard it, I will take you into my household:

As many people in the city know, I come from a long line of great warriors—if I had not lost my sight at such a young age, I might have been celebrated among them. My father, especially, was famed for his swiftness and might in battle, rising up to be his daimyo's most trusted vassal. Children in villages of these parts still tell tales of his legend, how breathtaking it was to witness him with a sword. How during the Ōnin War, as a member of the Hosokawa camp, enemies would seek him out to test their strengths against him, only for my father to defeat every last one.

Since his passing, I have always done my filial duty, making sure his gravestone is cleaned every year, bringing offerings for every festival. I have always remembered my father proudly.

But several nights ago, I began dreaming of horrible visions that left me writhing and crying out. I saw my father in the underworld, surrounded by all kinds of demons and methods of torture, suffering in hell. With all the strength he could muster, he implored me to go out across this bridge, to an abandoned field that now holds countless unmarked graves. It is there where his spirit manifests before me, confessing each and every act of bloodshed he ever committed. Only by admitting his sins to me, his only living descendant, will his ghost ever be able to rest and become absolved. So every dusk I journey out to meet him again, bringing offerings and appeasement, and listen until dawn.'

'W-well, you are quite the faithful son, Lord Akita. The previous Lord Akita is very fortunate in that sense.'

'I want to believe so. But how it takes such a toll on me, night after night. I am blind, so my father's spirit describes each gruesome act in so much detail, it fills my head with such terrible, lasting images. Every lopped off head and limb, every defiled woman and child caught in the crossfires of war. In my head, I can hear their screams, I cannot blink away the sight of their agonized expressions from my imagination. I cannot see them, but I know the ghosts of my father's victims linger there, too; I feel their chilly presence all around me.

So now you know the truth of why I am up all hours of the night. Are you still so certain you can face such a terrible endeavor, Seiji?'

'I must admit, I have a secret of my own: for many years, I was an acolyte at a monastery. I may not have trained specifically as an exorcist, but I certainly know a thing or two about different sorts of ghosts. I'm even more confident now that I can be of assistance to Lord Akita.'

Whether Seiji was better at selling himself than he believed, or each man’s desperation was matched in the other, Akita seemed impressed.

'A monastery? Perhaps it is a blessing after all that we stopped to converse. Very well, then. Meet me here at this spot at dusk and we will go together.'

Despite the hair-raising nature of Akita's mission, the beggar Seiji could not be more elated. He loafed about all through the daylit hours, excited to prove himself and secure a position in the wealthy samurai's service.

'No one will be able to look down on me again,' he told himself. Even hunger didn’t pain him the way it normally would.

As darkness fell, just like every night the Tenryu-ji tolled and Akita announced himself with the tap of his cane again, holding in his other hand a bundle with small cakes and a flask of wine for an offering. Tonight, the bridge sang under the weight of two pairs of feet crossing its length.

'You must wait here for a while behind this stone. My father's spirit will only appear when I summon him, and will not want to be approached by a stranger. When I have finished hearing his sins, we will go back across the bridge together. But in the meantime, I must beg that you shut your eyes and cover your ears; recite sutras and pray for my poor father, and nothing else. As long as I know you are waiting here, it will give me courage.'

'Understood.’” After a moment, he pulled from his sleeve an invisible string of beads, beginning to count them off: “’Namu-Amida-Butsu, Namu-Amida-Butsu, Namu-Amida…ah! No good, I’m beginning to doze,’” he murmured. “’Anyways, what’s taking that Akita so long. I don’t hear anything out there. Maybe the poor old man really is losing his mind and concocting fantasies in his head. Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to pray on his behalf, instead, if this is really all just a matter of grief for a dead father. Namu-Amida-Butsu, Namu-Amida…but then again, maybe someone really should check on him. I’ll get a little closer, to confirm if he’s talking to himself or really hearing voices out there. I won’t peek though, I swear.

Hm. Still nothing. The wind is too loud, perhaps. Closer, then.

There, that’s Akita’s voice, I think. It sounds like him, at least. No, there are there two voices; I hear the other one now. I can’t make out what they’re saying from here…’”

A look of horror slowly formed, the kind that traveled into every feature of the expression, starting with disbelief before the last shred of doubt broke. As he leaned one ear more and more in the direction of some unheard voice, his head turned finally to face it, falling on something beyond.

“Even with only scraps of what was being said, their meanings and images stained the mind like blood as the words rang clearer in his ears, horrible acts that would cause even the most seasoned warrior’s stomach to turn to ice. The creature looming over Akita there in that desolate field, he would never be able to describe, and the old man would never truly see.

The most dreadful sound Seiji had ever heard suddenly demanded: ‘_Who goes there?_’

Trembling from head to foot, Seiji stepped forward, wringing his hands with his prayer beads gripped in-between. ‘I should ask you that! Lord Akita, get away from there—that creature is no father of yours, it’s an evil spirit! A demon is tricking you!’

'_Evil spirit, indeed, that once was as flesh-and-blood as you. Look upon my wretchedness and make believe what you want. But the terrible truth remains—what once brought me fame and respect now seals me in this hideous, shameful form; what once was strong and warm is fated to wither into bones and rags. Come_,'” He held out his hands, the fingers half-curled, imitating the grotesque shrinking of decomposition, “_'If you dare, take these hands in yours so that the truth of my words may never be doubted again_.'”

Slowly, Shisui fell forward, crumpling down as if gradually losing consciousness until his forehead touched the floor again. The sigh of his haori falling fully away, his sleeves settling heavily around him, sounded in the bewitched imagination like the death-rattle of lungs breathing their last. For a long moment, he remained inanimately still. Itachi, like the rest of the audience, could only watch him, frozen. Then gradually he rose and sat up again, somber face staring forward at nothing.

Mournfully, he proclaimed, “'Poor thing, that Seiji, dying of fright. I should have known better. Some stories are too dreadful for the innocent to bear.'”

Itachi could not tear his gaze away.

Applause filled the room up to the rafters. The air felt to be releasing a pent-up breath in relief from the effect of the story, as Shisui bowed and exited the stage with the shamisen accompaniment again. Soon conversations were bubbling up as they had before at each table, some laughing off the way they’d gone so still like everyone else, the awe shining through their voices, nonetheless.

"That story was so creepy," said Ino, leaning into Itachi with her head laid on his shoulder, hugging his arm again. "You'll have to keep me company now, so I don't get any nightmares."

Serving girls were bustling now that the main entertainment had passed, carrying flasks of wine and replacing trays of snacks that had gone empty. Itachi remembered his own plate of wagashi, untouched until now. With his free arm, he reached out and took one that was curved over and shaped like a single ginkgo leaf. It melted on his tongue as he chewed. He looked around, scanning for Shisui, but he seemed to have vanished again after descending from the stage in the time he'd become distracted by sweets. Some men were already being led upstairs coyly by women, each of their faces shining with desire. A thought lit up in him.

"That storyteller, where does he go for the night after his performance?"

"Shisui-sensei? He lives here for the most part, now."

"Does he stay in one of the rooms on the second floor?"

"No, the third. He likes his privacy, like a real rakugo master." She lifted her face up from his shoulder, with that gossipy smile she seemed to wear often. "But I think it’s also ‘cause he’s just a gentleman; he never tries to sneak into any of the ladies’ beds. Though, I still think when it comes to gentlemen, no one's company is more enjoyable than a handsome samurai's."

"Can you take me to his room? I'd like to pay my respects personally for the performance."

With a pout, Ino reluctantly put away her charm and mumbled, "Well, alright."

Despite having deflated a bit, she escorted him up the stairway as cordially as before, past the rooms with voices and light music muffled behind the screen doors of the second-story hallway, to the top floor that was much more dim and pronounced with quiet. Past several rooms on the right side, only one of the panel doors glowed with life behind it.

Before they went further, Ino swiveled around and eyed Itachi again with her dollish expression. "If I introduce you two, you have to promise you'll come spend more time with me."

"Ino?" a woman's voice called up from the stairway, causing the girl to stiffen for a split-second.

"Coming!" She winked over her shoulder at Itachi as she went, whispering "I'll be right back."

Itachi watched her disappear around the corner, the quiet settling into the narrow hall again. He turned his attention to the screen door behind which Shisui was supposed to be. An odd tension stiffened his limbs, that apprehension from before rushing back; he’d thought seeing the other man in the river earlier had cured him of whatever subconscious effect had taken root in him, but that chilling performance just now had summoned pieces of it back. Hesitating, he pried the shoji door ajar and peered inside, slowly sliding the partition open.

The room wasn’t large, but it was nicely furbished, dimly lit with a single lantern on the floor. A cabinet and chest to the side, walls decorated with scrolls, one showing long stalks of autumnal grass bending in an imaginary breeze, another decorated with a poem he didn’t recognize. All this he took in in an instant. Beside a low table under a moon-shaped window, the man turned his head at his arrival.

"Shisui?"

"Oh, it's you." He greeted Itachi with a warm gaze, as if they were long-time friends. He began to rise from where he’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor, already changed out of the opulent clothing he’d worn on stage and into a simpler tan-colored cotton robe now. “Were you looking for one of the serving girls?”

“No. I wanted to see you, if that’s alright.”

He felt out of place as soon as the words left his lips, like an intruder rooted in place as Shisui approached him. The other man fixed him with a strange look, head cocked slightly yet his expression amiable.

“I’m not really obligated to lie with a customer like the others are,” Shisui explained, one hand going to unfasten his obi, “but I suppose it wouldn’t be courteous of me to deny a guest any service—”

“Stop.” Itachi’s hand flew out to grab his wrist, a little too quickly, stopping halfway in the space between them. “I’m just here to talk.”

Shisui smothered a grin unsuccessfully, trickster eyes crinkling with amusement at coming close to flustering him. It occurred to Itachi that he hadn’t really been serious in the first place, the gesture more playful than malicious. It also struck him, like a small needle pricking at him, that this was the closest he’d stood yet to the lute singer. Somehow he’d never noticed the length of his lashes until now, how they framed those pools of obsidian leaf-shaped and drew into twin points. Like the tail-end threads of calligraphy strokes that sometimes form when the ink brush has gone dry.

“It’s fine, of course. Please, make yourself comfortable.” With that, Shisui turned toward the dresser, rummaging for something.

Itachi took a place on the other side of the low table from him and sat tentatively on the straw mat floor, glancing around. A fold-up screen stood nearby, depicting a flock of cranes all standing together, their bodies swarmed into a single mass with eight rows of legs. They looked lifelike, ready to take off with frantic instinct. Shisui’s bedding might’ve been rolled up and hidden behind the screen, he thought. His eyes roamed some more, finding Shisui’s lute resting on a wooden stand. Next to it, also resting on a stand, his stare narrowed on a tantō, the little arm-length sword laid out in the open. Even if it were meant to be decorative, questions raced through Itachi’s mind wondering how any sort of blade could have appeared in the pleasure district, where weapons were strictly forbidden. He kept that observation tucked in his mind for now.

“I only have tea. Do you prefer wine?”

“Tea is fine.” The thought of adding how much he liked the tea there crossed his mind, but for some reason it caught in his throat and didn’t escape.

Shisui returned, revealing he’d been looking for another cup, which he found. The two cups set on the lacquer tray were not part of the same set, one glazed a deep blue within and the image of a quail on the outside, while the other, Shisui’s spare that he set close to himself, a simple brown.

“Was that Ino’s voice I heard in the hallway?” he asked while pouring Itachi’s cup first.

“Yes. She was the one who showed me up.”

“Hm. She’s not supposed to be hanging around guests, since she’s still in training. Don’t tattle on her to Anko, though, okay?”

Itachi nodded blankly, despite not having an idea who Anko was.

Somewhere outside, behind another set of walls, a male voice was singing distantly, practicing by the sound of it. Other sounds of the city seeped in softly, more a presence than audible. For a moment, they drank their wordlessly. 

"I was just teasing you earlier; I'm actually glad you found me. I was a little afraid you'd run off and leave before we could visit some more,” Shisui told him gently. His lips quirked into that crooked smile from the river. "Our paths keep crossing in strange places, don't they?"

“I couldn’t pass up any leads, after all,” Itachi pointed out.

“So you’re working on the case rather than letting loose? I kind of figured as much with you. How is the investigation going then? Are you gathering anything useful?”

“It’s early to decide how useful each piece of information is,” Itachi replied, not revealing any more.

“You haven’t been an investigator for very long, have you?”

“Not really,” he admitted, not entirely sure what compelled him to say so.

“Sorry,” Shisui said, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s not that you’re bad at it or anything, I just meant that you seem rather young to be in the position.”

“I haven’t told you my age.”

“You can’t be older than me.”

After a moment, he confessed, “I’m seventeen.”

Shisui nodded, more to himself at having his assumption confirmed, yet did not offer his own age in return.

Something about that prickled Itachi under his skin.

“And what about you, how did you come to master rakugo when you say you’re not much older?”

“I’m hardly a master,” he half-laughed self-consciously.

“Where did you learn that kind of storytelling in the first place?”

“I lived at a temple for several years when I was younger. That’s where I got most of my education. The monks would sometimes put on storytelling contests to entertain us and have us memorize long verses. I wasn’t the best, but here it seems to have become very popular.”

Itachi studied him, marking how openly Shisui answered his questioning and without complaint. “You haven’t been in Edo long, yet in the weeks since you arrived, you’ve gone from performing on the streets to earning lodge at a prestigious teahouse. That’s a pretty swift progression up the ranks.”

“I guess the right people heard my voice and thought it wasn’t half-bad. I do feel very fortunate, I have to admit.” Shisui set his teacup down onto the tray. He met Itachi’s stare with his own gaze, his smile widening again. “Did you like that ghost story just now?”

“Yes,” Itachi admitted, and his thoughts continued to tumble from him. “It was incredible, the way you told it. That’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with you, actually—the meaning of the story, for example.”

“Mn. What do _you_ make of it?”

Itachi grew contemplative. “There’s a danger in truth, for one thing. In the pursuit of one version, that is.”

“We all live in the world built around our own perceptions,” Shisui continued for him, as if they shared each other’s thoughts. “But for some, this also creates the barriers between ignorance and innocence, complicity and accountability.”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Yet isn’t there something to be said in the fact that it’s the beggar, who has nothing to do with the samurai ghost’s sins, who pays the ultimate price in the end?” he countered.

Itachi set his own teacup down. “Do you mean, that the story is commenting on a form of classist strife, or is it framing the blind man’s burden not only as a hereditary one, but one only a warrior could shoulder?”

“Which do you identify with?”

“Which interpretation?”

“No, which character?” Shisui explained. “The blind old man who’s haunted by hellish visions of a loved one, or the beggar who gets tragically caught up in them when he’s only trying to help? Every listener places themselves into the story somehow. It’s only natural that one appeals to each person’s sympathy a little more, and that probably decides their interpretation more than anything else.”

“The blind man, who comes from a samurai lineage, I suppose,” Itachi answered after a long moment.

“Ah. Akita’s character tends to resonate with me, as well.”

“Really? You seem so masterful at bringing the beggar to life. I don’t mean that in a condescending way,” Itachi added sincerely.

“I know. You have a point though. Believe it or not, I really have a long fascination with samurai characters and the world they live in. I tend to gravitate toward those stories. But I guess I lack a certain element in my portrayal, I’m still working on honing. Being surrounded by monks and other acolytes while practicing, it’s no wonder some characters still fall flat.”

“I don’t think they fall flat at all,” Itachi broke in. “It’s amazing, what you can do with your voice, your expressions. When I was watching you, it was like witnessing multiple people at once, as if you were possessed by them.”

“’Possessed,’ huh,” Shisui murmured, as if feeling the word out between his fingertips.

It had quieted even more, outside and throughout the teahouse, songs and chatter no longer echoing up toward them. The town had begun to wind down it seemed, lovers laying together with soft voices everywhere.

Shisui stared outside the round window, at the scant moonlight that was filtering in. “The gates will probably be closing soon. I wouldn’t want to keep you too long, if you’re planning on crossing the bridge out of Yoshiwara tonight.”

“Ah. Right.” He sounded to his own ears as if slipping from a trance.

“Not that you’re not welcome to stay,” Shisui said, tossing an amused look at him.

“No, I should probably go.”

As Itachi rose, Shisui remained seated, staring up at him with a serious expression.

“Before you go, I have a bit of a proposition for you,” he said. “I’ll ask around about the dead man you’re investigating and tell you all I hear. Since I’m not part of the police, I have a feeling it might loosen people’s tongues more, wouldn’t you agree?”

“And in exchange?”

“I want to keep observing you, if that’s okay with you. I think if I do that for a while, my samurai characters will really come to life.”

The suggestion caused Itachi to blink down at him. “Why me?”

Shisui smiled in that self-conscious way again. “There’s something unique about you, I can’t quite explain it. You’re like no other samurai I’ve ever come across, even in stories. I could sense it from the moment I saw you.”

The moment their eyes caught, like a spark, came back to Itachi, hot as blood. What exactly had Shisui seen in him? Sinking into his own thoughts, he couldn’t give an answer.

Shisui put in gently, “It’s up to you. You know where to find me, after all.”

Slightly dazed as he made his way toward the bridge’s gate, Itachi’s mind ran through his conversation with Shisui over again, his eerie story and charming composure. He hadn’t found anything concretely connected to Sugaru, yet it felt wrong to call the night a waste. Above him, the moon was only a sliver, peeking from behind smoke-like clouds.

o

_The autumn night_

_is long only in name—_

_We’ve done no more_

_than gaze at each other_

_and it’s already dawn._

\- Ono no Komachi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment has come, it’s Shisui’s time to shine!! ;v; !! >:3c
> 
> (also, I’m sure it’s painfully obvious how deeply the series Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu will be influencing me when it comes to this AU ^^” hopefully my self-indulgence is fun and interesting for readers, too orz)
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderfully thoughtful comments so far ^^ As always, please let me know what you think! If you’re enjoying the story, and/or if any particular details or moments stick out to you, I’d love to hear it ;~; Not to mention, feedback and validation do wonders in energizing content creators to keep going 🙏


End file.
